Wastelander
by cally777
Summary: Escaping from Vault 101 after a romance gone bad, Arta faces unimaginable horrors in the Fallout World. Ex-raider Jericho, Clover and the sinister Mr Burke are amongst those who can help her survive the Wasteland - or betray her to her death.
1. Prologue: Womb

Wastelander by Cally 777

*Disclaimer/foreword: I continue to disclaim ownership of any Fallout 3 characters which are Bethesda's property, with the possible exception of my own (Arta). Arta's story is very loosely based on my Fallout experiences. I emphasize loosely. This is certainly not a fic which follows the main quest line (or other quests) in any conventional fashion. Good story telling comes first before anything, as it should.

Note that the prologue is written in a somewhat different style to the rest of the fic. The second chapter (published simultaneously) is more typical of what is to follow. The prologue also contains some info well known to game players. While I'm mostly writing for fans (clue: name of the site), I also usually try to make the fic understandable for non-fans too. Whether this is of any help I will only know if a non-fan tells me how much they liked the story.

Finally I ought to reveal this is not only my first Fallout Fic, its also my first M rated story. Some comments on whether the rating is appropriate, and if the content is too strong/not strong enough might be helpful.*

* * *

Ch 1 Prologue: Womb

What does a baby think about in the womb? Does it think at all, you ask? Let's leave that one for now. It's got a brain after all. Not at first, of course. But it'll grow one, by and by. Unless one of the terrible events that happen in the world overtake it. And if it's got a brain, then it can think, can't it?

What does it think about then? About what's going on around it? That's a good starting place.

So maybe the first thing that comes into its head is something like: _it's warm, dark and comfortable here. Everything's taken care of for me. I don't have to do anything much. Just float about all the time, flexing my little limbs. This is all right. This is NICE._

Time goes by, as it always does. The baby's been enjoying its comfort and security. But nothing much seems to have changed. It's grown a little bigger, yet its surroundings are the same. The thought may come to mind: _is it always going to be like this?_

And then what are these things that happen from time to time? Movement. Sounds. Where do they come from? Do they come from some place different from here? Somewhere _outside?_

The baby is bigger again. Much bigger. The womb that confines it seems to close around it. It hasn't as much space to thrash about in. And when it kicks out, it meets resistance straight away.

Perhaps the warmth, and the darkness and the _safety_ don't seem so attractive anymore. _I've changed, they haven't. What's interesting are those sounds out there. From the other place. Everything here is so … so much the same … so BORING_.

The things that surround the baby, this darkness, this womb, this mother. They protect it. But they do so by keeping it inside. Away from whatever is outside. Even if inside is ease and safety. Even if outside is not. Even if outside is some hellish existence, some margin of misery, some Wasteland. Its place of safety has become a prison.

And in the baby's mind one thought above every other – _I want to get out. I want to get out. I WANT TO GET OUT._

* * *

What does a human being think about when confined in a metallic womb? That's an easier question. Especially when there's an example to study.

In the year 2077, atomic war had left most of earth devastated, a hell of radioactivity, mutated life forms, poisoned water sources, ruined cities. A Wasteland.

But some remnant of true humanity survived, in underground shelters known as Vaults, prepared against the holocaust of fire. The Vaults contained everything humans needed for sustainable survival, and even provided a degree of comfort. As long as they stayed within a Vault's metal walls, the survivors remained safe and protected, in the subterranean womb of the human race.

Eventually most of these Vault Dwellers emerged, hoping to reclaim the world as their own. Yet confronted with the horror of the Wastes, they could form only scattered enclaves; to rebuild civilization seemed more a dream than something achievable. Still many preferred to face the challenge when the alternative was to live like Mole Rats in tunnels. Or if they could not completely escape barbarism, then at least to live in some kind of freedom.

Amongst those who remained underground were the inhabitants of Vault 101. In this particular shelter, a virtual dictatorship had become established. Even though partially benign, and with the intention of protecting those it sought to rule over, this totalitarianism was thoroughly rigid in one important aspect. Orders were given that the giant metal door providing the only exit must be sealed shut forever. No one was to enter, no one was to leave. Vault 101 appeared to be cut off from the world and the rest of humanity.

Imagine then the life of one of these 'O1ers' or 'Tunnel Rats' as some self-mockingly named themselves (out of the Overseer's hearing, at least). Her first memories are of all-confining grey metal walls, the constant hum of air-conditioning, the stale smell of pent-up humanity, the unchanging blandness of vat-grown concentrates. But Vault life has its compensations. The food and water are clean and free from radiation. Physical violence is uncommon. Life is undemanding.

Consolation is to be had in other ways too. The kindness of her father alleviates, if it does not make up for, the absence of her mother, who died in giving birth to her. Amidst the petty squabbling and jealousies, she has made one close friend. A combination of genetic inheritance and good parenting has given her a sharp intelligence, a strong will and an appearance which is striking and comely, if not entirely beautiful. To some she seems aloof, yet her father has tried to show her the value of compassion. It may be through his influence that she has gained an independence of mind which leads her to begin to question why things are the way they are.

_Why can't we leave the Vault? What is outside? Why obey the Overseer?_

She cannot openly voice these questions, but she thinks them. She learns quickly to guard her thoughts. In an enclosed society, secrets spread like viruses.

She absorbs other things too. How the world used to be before the war. In particular the area which Vault 101 lies beneath. Washington DC, formerly the capital of the rich and powerful country known as the United States of America. _What can be there now?_

As she grows bigger, so the Vault seems smaller. Its rabbit warren of passages lead nowhere in particular. Except for one. Behind that lies a whole world.

And in the child's mind, one thought above every other: _I want to get out. I want to get out. I WANT TO GET OUT._


	2. Different Kinds of Virginity

Ch 2 Different kinds of virginity

Arta squinted down the sights of the plastic gun barrel, patiently scanning the white walls of the building she could see ahead. The pipboy on her wrist registered three possible targets. Eventually her persistence was rewarded with the emergence of a small, sallow faced man in a dirty jumpsuit. Placing the rifle dot over his head, she noted VATS estimate of a 75% chance to hit this body part. Good enough. She pumped two rounds, and grunted with satisfaction as the second took the man's head clean off. On the head up display, a message read, '_Another stealth kill for Uncle Sam_."

Arta chuckled. "Hah! I should've got him with the first shot; I love it when the animation shows their heads flying through the air and rolling away! Who's Uncle Sam, by the way?"

Jonas hit a key to pause the simulation, and shook his head. "So young and so bloodthirsty!" In a more serious tone, he continued, "Don't try to lead the target, VATS will compensate. As for Uncle Sam, look him up on your pipboy, young lady; I'm not here to do your basic research for you."

Arta flipped up the targeting monocle. Familiar bland, grey Vault walls replaced the desert scenery; the sterile environment of the lab with its faint chemical smell, metallic tables and benches scattered with a jumble of electronic parts, specimens and sample bottles

She tried forming her lips into a pout; felt she needed a little more practice to look sexy rather than silly. "It's not like it's real blood. And the way you explain things isn't quite so ditch-water dull as that old pipboy."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence. Maybe now you'll pay more attention to me than you usually do. Someday it might be real blood that you're spilling, which is why we're doing this. I'm not risking the Overseer's wrath just to provide you with entertainment. This is the same system Vault Security uses to train. Can't waste our valuable ammunition now, can we?"

Arta sighed. "I bet they get to use real guns sometimes, not stupid air pistols."

Jonas wagged a finger. "Now don't be dissing your dad's birthday present! He was that proud when you first took a shot with it."

"Well … poopy!"

"I'm shocked, shocked at such language from you, young lady!" But Jonas was having a hard time preventing himself from grinning broadly. He ran his fingers through the short, tight curls covering his scalp, and considered. "You probably don't deserve it but I happen to have the very thing." He began to rummage through a chest on the lab workbench. Arta left the game, and came forward to look eagerly over his shoulder. Jonas eventually pulled out a heavy service revolver. He rotated the chambers, looking into each until he was satisfied they were all empty.

Arta said disappointedly, "What, I don't get to fire it? Just point and say 'bang'?"

"You've not earned the right yet."

"Aw, c'mon!" Arta tried doing the pout again with better success. "Hey, I promise I'll be good, real, real good, for the next ... oh ... five years!"

"I give into you far too often. OK, I guess its pretty soundproof in here, and there's a simulacrum over there for you to aim at. But you only get one chance." Jonas searched in the case again, and took out a single bullet, which he slotted into the chamber. Carefully he handed the gun to Arta. "So … let's see how well you've learned your weapons drill."

A little uncertainly, Arta snapped the chamber shut and cocked the pistol. Shutting one eye, she raised it to point at the dummy. Jonas tutted. He pointed at the side of the weapon.

"Don't forget to take the safety off. And hold it in both hands. No, not like that …" He sidled behind Arta, bringing his arms around her to take hold of her hands with his own, adjusting her grip. "There … now try again."

Arta was acutely aware of Jonas' nearness, of his large, warm hands, his heavy, masculine scent. Quivering with excitement, she brought both arms up to point the gun directly at the target.

"That's right … now it'll kick some. Squeeze the trigger slowly."

In the silence of the lab, the gun's report seemed deafening. Arta felt a surge of pleasure run through her as she felt the recoil. The plastic dummy bucked, a hole through its torso.

"Great shot!" Jonas remained in the same position, his arms still steadying her. His voice a tone lower, he asked, "So how was that for you?"

Arta turned to look into his eyes. His face was very close. Aware that she might be crossing a line doing so, she smiled and said, "Better than sex!"

"Oh, really? I didn't realise I was in the presence of someone so experienced." But he was smiling back at her, and she felt her heart thumping.

"I guess … everyone can learn a little more sometimes." She wet her dry lips.

"Undoubtedly." His voice was now just above a whisper. "It's merely a matter of having the right … teacher." Arta felt his hand slide back along her arm, the fingers brushing her shoulder, then they slipped lower, finally coming to rest around the area of her right breast. Through the light material of her jumpsuit, she could feel his thumb circling and pressing against her nipple, causing it to harden slightly.

Absorbing the unfamiliar, exciting sensations, Arta's thoughts raced, the part of her mind she called her 'romantic self' (or less flatteringly, her 'inner slut') surging to preeminence. Under its influence, she was reflecting that Jonas was handsome and intelligent, good humoured (mostly), and certainly not a dickhead like the majority of the boys of her own age. He was also likely to be virile and sexually experienced. _Pretty much everything a lover should be_, her amorous muse told her.

And yet … there was also the question of Pride. She was being seduced by someone over ten years her senior, and her father's colleague to boot. _Ewww … it's almost like incest_, the new inner voice was saying. _Kick his balls, the cheeky bastard_!

Then there was one other Arta that wanted her say, restraining the 'Kick-arse' tendency trying to surface. A calm, calculating voice urging, _don't make it too easy for him, but don't put him off. He's far too useful for us to upset. But if you go giving the whole store away, he won't respect you, and he may even stop helping._

All these thoughts passed through her head in a few heartbeats and the time it had taken her nipple to come to full erection. But she put her own right hand over Jonas's, moving it firmly away from her breast.

In a demure voice which had everything of 'Smart' Arta about it, she said, "My father will kill you if he finds out."

She knew she'd said the right thing, because Jonas jerked back as if he'd just received a 10,000-volt charge. He glared at her, breathing hard. Trying to keep his speech tightly controlled, he rasped, "Why does he have to find out, for jees' sake?"

Arta could see that Jonas attempt to collect himself was a pretty poor one. _That's right, _she thought, _don't let anything endanger your relationship with good ole' James. Whatever you two are conspiring about, it's a lot more important than groping a sixteen year old._

Sweetly she said, "Well, you know how things get around here, and in any case, me and Dad, we're real close. I'd hate not to be able to share something this important with him."

"Oh, is that so?" Jonas was clearly far from convinced, but unwilling to take the risk she might be serious. "You just wouldn't be able to resist spilling the beans yourself then?"

Arta smiled, knowing she had the upper hand. "Well, I suppose I _could _tell him afterwards; then beg him to forgive you for deflowering me. Perhaps he might come round eventually …"

"Don't try to be a clever little bitch!" Jonas evidently knew when he was beaten. "Look keep your virginity, if that's what you want. Only … don't say anything about this to him, OK? This beautiful father-daughter thing you've got going can survive that, can't it?"

"I guess I'm going to have to whiz that thought around in my clever little head, and see what comes out." Arta couldn't help revelling in her triumph. Jonas was obviously mad at her, but he'd see sense once his dick had stopped throbbing. And if he didn't, well she had him pretty much over a barrel now …

"Yeah, well you do that. Now if you don't mind, I've got plenty of things to get on with. Like, you know, scientific research, the thing your dad employs me for?"

"Wait a moment, you said you were going to show me those hacked files of the pre-war DC layout!"

Jonas clapped his hand to his head, "You know, that's the strangest thing. The files disappeared shortly after I downloaded them. Must have been some sort of self-deleting protective virus. Sorry about that."

Arta glared at him. She hadn't anticipated quite this combination of disgruntlement with cunning evasion. He was probably lying to piss her off, but there was no way she could find out right now. Well screw him! He thought he was smart, but she was smarter. Meanwhile she could at least look forward to telling Amata all the juicy gossip.

* * *

"He did _what? _Oh, my god Arta, did he actually …"

"Yes, he did!" Arta grinned with satisfaction at the shock in Amata's voice. "He put his hand right here … and then he …"

"What, you mean, like this?" Amata made a quick grab for Arta's breast from in front, making her giggle automatically.

"No … nothing so clumsy, silly. Look, stand in front of the mirror, and I'll show you."

With a little pout of her own, Amata complied. Arta sidled up behind her, adopting a similar position to the one she remembered Jonas taking, with the significant difference that she first slipped her left arm around Amata's slim waist.

"See, it was just like this." She slid her hand forward.

_Oh please, please!_

"And then he kinda moved his fingers like this."

Amata's expression remained composed, as she regarded both of their reflections in the sleeping cell mirror. But she said:

"Wow, that feels sexy! So what did you do then?"

Reluctantly lowering her hand, Arta briefly recounted the conversation that had followed.

"You clever minx! That must've left him in a state of immense frustration. Soon he'll be putty in your hands."

Arta said, hesitantly, "Well, to be honest, I'm not even sure if I …"

"Oh, come on! He's really quite good-looking, and even charming. I told you it was only a matter of time before you found someone suitable. Even if he's a little old for you."

"I suppose." Arta looked at her reflection critically. "I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me. I mean, like my appearance, it's a little peculiar don't you think?"

_Don't agree with me, say something nice!_

Amata turned, taking hold of Arta's chin and moving it to examine her in profile. "Well, maybe just a bit unusual."

_Bitch!_

"It's only that your eyes are a trifle larger than might be expected, and they're quite wide apart. And your skin's naturally pale, though you could always use the sun-bed like I do. Then you insist on having that rather boyish hair style." She ran her fingers gently through Arta's collar length chocolate coloured locks, causing her to shiver thrillingly, despite her disappointment.

"Gee, thanks! Now I feel like 101's number one prize freak!"

Amata laughed, and good-humouredly pinched and shook Arta's cheek. "No, I didn't mean to make it sound like that!" Cocking her head to one side, she continued, "That waif like look you have is part of your attraction. Those grey-blue, soulful eyes … there's an intensity about them. And those bee-stung lips, everyone knows that's sexy. And you've got a perfectly cute nose too, I love the way its straight almost all the way, then turns up just a little at the end. The things about your face that are different, they make you distinct and give you your own kind of beauty. "

As they both looked directly into one another's eyes, Arta said haltingly, "So you're saying that I'm beautiful?"

_Say it, please!_

Amata reached out to stroke Arta's face reflectively. Softly she said, "Yes. Yes, I am."

_Thank you, thank you!_

Desperate not to lose the moment, Arta said quickly, "I think … I think you're beautiful too."

_And she is. Her dark hair so silky, tied back so you can see more of that perfectly proportioned face, delicate, with a high forehead, her skin a light golden colour. Her eyes so thoughtful, passionate, that I never tire of gazing into. An exquisite nose and cherubic lips which I want to kiss. I've loved her, I've wanted her, for such a long time. Could this be the moment when we …_

Amata nodded, almost as if Arta had made some passing remark about the internal climate regulation. Absently she said, "You don't mind me touching you like this, do you?"

"N, no, not at all!"

"I'm glad. I liked it when you touched me before … where you touched me. I liked it a lot."

And then suddenly their faces were close, their noses touching lightly, their lips seeking for one another. And they were kissing, ardently, deeply.

After a while they paused, smiling at each other a little shyly, before resuming with even greater intensity, their caresses somewhat clumsy at first, restricted by their clothing, but increasingly passionate. While continuing to kiss Arta, Amata began to unzip her jumpsuit, revealing an elegant white, sheer bra, and silky lace panties.

_Wow, her underwear is real quality! It must be based on a pre-war design. So that's what the Overseer's daughter gets to wear. Mine looks pretty dowdy by comparison._

Amata had by now completely discarded her Vault suit. She gave Arta a sultry look that obviously challenged her to do the same.

_She looks absolutely amazing! Her arms, legs and waist are so slender and graceful. I wonder are her breasts larger than mine? Or does her bra make them look bigger?_

Feeling a trifle nervous, Arta followed suit, trying not to rush too much. She felt reassured at least that her body was well toned from regular sessions in the Vault gym, and her simpler but more practical underclothes sat well with her athletic appearance. Amata's reaction seemed to be one of approval, as she reached out to stroke Arta's arm and shoulder, feeling the hard muscles.

"You're so strong." Leaning back in a seductive pose, she crooked a finger invitingly. "C'mon, touch me."

This time their coming together had more softness and sensuality, with the freedom to explore each other, to brush bare skin with bare skin, to slide fingers around breasts now barely concealed, to tease the most intimate areas of their bodies. Their breaths were heavy and hot matching the urgency of their desire, the need to touch and be touched. In the flurry of passion, bra straps slipped from shoulders.

_Who cares whose breasts are bigger, hers are so warm, so soft and … mmm … taste so good! Ohhh, I feel like I'm going to come already!_

Perhaps sensing her unspoken need, Amata moved so that she was a little behind Arta, pressing her body close, then stretched downwards to slide her fingers inside her friend's panties, probing for the warmth and wetness she knew she would find.

_Oh god and Jesus Christ! Ohgodohgodohgodohgod! _Arta was hardly aware of whether she was forming the words or just moaning incoherently. Gasping and with beads of perspiration running down her face, she was aware that Amata was watching her with a rather smug expression.

"Was that good for you?" Easing her briefs down over her smooth buttocks, she added in a purring tone, "My turn now."

* * *

Arta was riding a wave of exhilaration. She felt if she became any happier, she would rise through the air and ascend to the Seventh Heaven (Beatrice, the dreamy Vault poet had once told her about it, though her verses more often described the mundane reality which surrounded them). No, even that wasn't enough to describe this sensation of pure joy. Could there be any feeling more sublime than finally holding in your arms the lover you had yearned for? If there was, then she wanted it corked up and bottled so she could enjoy it forever.

After another bout of fevered lovemaking came a gentle lull. Arta stroked Amata's hair, her cheeks, kissed her neck, nibbling the lobe of her ear, whispering the words she had longed to say.

"I love you."

Almost imperceptibly, she felt Amata's body tighten. Unable to believe her own senses, she said again, more clearly.

"I love you."

Amata made no reply. She turned very slightly away from Arta, as if contemplating her words.

A little chill of fear crept into Arta's heart. Trying to shake it off, she tried to gently turn Amata's face back towards her own, kiss her again.

She asked, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Amata made no resistance, but as she met Arta's eyes, her gaze was cool and level. In a tone to match, she said, "What do you want me to say?"

"I … I … thought …"

"What did you think? Because I'm your friend, and I'm prepared to have sex with you, you assume that that equals love, somehow?"

"N - no. I just … I just thought you cared about me, so …"

"And I do. But this … is unexpected. I mean, god, Arta, I had no idea you'd been feeling like this." Amata rose to a sitting position. "Love … love is … well love is about as significant as it gets, especially in this metal box we're trapped in. And I'm not sure that I'm ready for it. I … we … we're only sixteen you know. I mean, how can you be sure that …"

"I know … I'm sure, I've always been sure, that its you that I want. Don't … don't you feel the same?"

"I … I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

Arta suddenly sensed her world collapsing. "You haven't thought? All this time we've been making love, and you haven't thought?"

"That was … different. It was comfortable … pleasurable. This … this is intense."

"Having sex with me wasn't intense?"

"Alright … wrong choice of words. But this … thing you've put upon me … I don't know if I can handle it."

"I don't want to put anything on you. I want you to feel as I do." Arta gave Amata a despairing look. "But I can see that you don't."

A hint of irritation in her voice, Amata said, "Look, don't take it so hard. Its only sex you know. So everyone makes it out to be such a big thing, when really …"

"How the hell can you tell? You've never done it before either!"

Amata turned her eyes downwards. "Well, that's not actually true, as it happens."

"What the … you're joking, aren't you? How come you never told me?"

"You never asked. In any case, is it really your business who I've slept with?"

"It is now. Who? Tell me who the fuck it was."

"Just calm down, won't you? If you must know, it was Paul Hannon."

"You have gotta be kidding me! You slept with one of those Tunnel Snake arse-holes? Have you absolutely no shame?"

"I knew that would be your reaction, which is one reason I didn't say anything. OK, he's a bit of a jerk, like all of them. But he used to be more sensible before they dragooned him into their pathetic gang. Even you have to admit that. He was the only one who apologised for pissing about during your birthday party, remember?"

"My tenth? That was six years ago, Amata. We've all changed a lot since then."

"Maybe. Still there wasn't exactly a massive field of suitable candidates." Amata shot Arta a challenging look. "I figured if nothing else, he ought to be … well-endowed."

"Oh, ewww!"

"And he was … very." Something like a smirk passed briefly across Amata's face. "I'm not saying it was absolutely amazing straight away. Actually it hurt at first. In the end, though, it was … a real high." With emphasis, "And that's all it was." Arta looked stunned, and Amata continued, "Naturally I told him if he ever boasted about it to anyone he'd end up pulling sewage duty for the rest of his days. A little word in daddy's ear …"

_Yeah, you tell me often enough to forget who your father is. As if I could._

Bitterly Arta retorted, "Does that same warning apply to me?"

"Don't be silly! We're supposed to be friends. At least we were until you began this … this foolishness."

Arta struggled to speak past the lump in her throat. "You've made it quite clear what you think about it, and what you think about me." She groped blindly for her clothing. "I have to go."

"Look … Arta … I'm sorry …its …"

Arta couldn't manage any further reply. Conflicting emotions had robbed her of the power of speech. Anger at herself for naivety. How could she have so misread Amata's feelings? Humiliated rage that someone she had considered a friend could use her in this way. But overwhelming all was sorrow and heartbreak. None of the inner voices could offer solace for the pain she was feeling. Moving with frantic haste, she pulled on her pants, and clipped on her bra, shrugging herself into her jumpsuit, before zipping it up.

A buzz sounded. Over the room intercom, a thin, masculine voice asked impatiently, "Amata, what are you doing in there?"

It was the Overseer.

* * *

*Well, what else can I say other than, this is uncharted territory for me, so please review!*


	3. Snakes are a pain

Ch 3 Snakes are a pain

Although there was supposed to be a general equality in lifestyle amongst the Vault's inhabitants, in actuality Amata's status as the daughter of its revered leader ensured she had her own private room, while most ordinary citizens were forced to share. But all privacy was relative. If you locked your door during the day cycle, for example, people often wanted to know why.

There were a few moments of frenetic activity, as Arta smoothed down her clothes and hair and Amata sprayed Vault-Tec Odour Begone around the room. Leaping onto the temper foam cushioned bed, she hastily threw a sheet over her nakedness.

She called out, "I was taking a nap, and then Arta woke me up. She's just leaving."

"Then you don't need the door locked, do you? Let me in, please."

When Arta opened the door, the Overseer sniffed and threw her a suspicious look. Arta knew that it was only due to Amata's stubborn insistence that he'd permitted them to associate. This reluctance on his part was unsurprising, as it was through Amata that she had learned he disliked her father, and considered him a subversive influence. Arta had hoped that his status as the Vault's chief scientist and, more importantly, its most experienced surgeon, would be some protection from the Overseer's emnity.

In point of fact, Alphonse Almodovar, the absolute ruler of Vault 101, wasn't that much older than Arta's father. In the narrow society over which he presided, he was considered to have attained an age where maturity and dignity sat hand in hand. But there was something indefinably wintry about his appearance that was more than the sum of his whitening hair, patriarchal beard and lined face; an absence of compassion which chilled the soul. The aristocratic looks of an aging grandee only accentuated the cruelty of his eyes, like those of a bird of prey from old visi-slides. In Arta's mind, he represented everything about the Vault that she hated. She met his glance without flinching, not caring if he suspected her resentment.

To her relief he chose to ignore the implied discourtesy. Pushing past her, he entered the sleep cell, saying, "Amata, my dear, there are a few things I wish to…" The sudden hiss of the closing portal cut off the rest of the sentence from her hearing.

Arta took a deep breath. The interruption had temporarily relieved her of mental agony; now it returned in full force. She wanted to go back to her room and cry herself to sleep. She stumbled her way along several metal walled corridors, the events of the previous hour replaying in her mind over and over like a Vault motivational video. Reaching one of the sections of the Atrium connected to branching maintenance passages, she paused to take some deep calming breaths.

As she was about to continue, she became aware of voices coming from one of the side corridors. The red maintenance lighting showed several figures clustered together, talking animatedly. There was a loud burst of masculine laughter.

Arta was inclined to continue on her way regardless. Until she noticed that some of the group were wearing stylised leather jackets over their normal blue and gold Vault jumpsuits. Tunnel Snakes! She remembered what Amata had said, and her jaw tightened. She stole up closer to listen.

All the Snakes were present, including their self-proclaimed leader, Butch Deloria, an arrogant and strutting young peacock distinguished by the way he wore his hair in an antique quiff. He was backed up by his loutish and (in Arta's opinion) near brain-dead companion, Wally Mack, a heavily built lunk with a flat top cut. And of greater interest from her viewpoint, the more intelligent and dangerous looking Paul Hannon, lithe, dark haired and dark skinned.

The object of their attention, a diminutive, quite pretty young woman with mousy hair, wore no insignia and looked apprehensive. With some surprise, Arta recognised Mary, one of the Holden Twins. Along with the well-known fact that she was practically inseparable from her brother, Tom, Arta would have thought her too sensible to become involved with the likes of the Tunnel Snakes.

Nervously licking her lips, Mary said, "Listen, I had no idea about this initiation ceremony thing, and I don't think I like the sound of it."

"Well, naturally." Butch chuckled and gave her a mocking look. "We can't tell outsiders about Tunnel Snake secrets until they _are _Tunnel Snakes, can we boys?" This was met with a chorus of laughter from the other gang members.

Mary asked worriedly. "But why do I have to take off my jumpsuit? I don't feel comfortable with that."

With a sly grin for his companions, Butch replied nonchalantly. "Its kinda symbolic. You have to remove your old Vault clothes to be ready to receive your new colours. Colours are like a uniform, see?"

"Well – alright." Mary sounded resigned to the indignity. "But can you guys turn your backs first? Its sorta embarrassing undressing with you all staring at me."

"Absolutely!" Butch said smoothly. "Turn around, boys. Yes, you too Wally." With a few protests, the others complied, but Arta could see they were giggling and stealing occasional glances over their shoulders.

Reluctantly Mary began unzipping her jumpsuit, stepping out of it rather awkwardly. She stood in her underwear, shivering slightly, despite the usual moderate temperature. She said, "OK, I'm ready. Where's my 'colours'?"

Butch shrugged, "We'll get them in a moment … but first …"

Once more facing her, the gang began to edge forward until they had hemmed her close against the wall. She shrank back, breathing hard.

A new gloating tone in his voice, Butch said, "First there's another part to the initiation specially for female members. We call it Introducing the Tunnel Snakes or, for short, the Gang Bang." His hand brushed significantly against his crotch.

Mary's eyes widened, and she made a move to escape, but Mack and Hannon grabbed one of her arms each, pushing her violently back against a metal locker.

Mary gasped, "No, please, I don't want to." With a desperate cry: "Please, no, I'm still a virgin!"

"Oh, really?" Butch's voice was cold and unrelenting. "Well, that should make things more interesting for everyone."

"No … I … leave me alone!"

"C'mon, Mary. Don't you want some excitement in your dull Vault existence? That's what being in the Tunnel Snakes is all about."

Arta decided it was time she intervened. Slipping out from concealment, she said clearly, "Don't worry, Mary, their tiny snakes aren't up to providing much stimulation." The group turned to gape at her. She took advantage of their temporary astonishment, to add, "Unless you want some limp entertainment, I'd forget about joining this little boys club."

Struggling to recover the initiative, Butch snarled, "Well if it isn't Miss Lonesome herself! Sorry, but we don't have any vacancies for social pariahs right now. Take a hike!"

Smiling to show she was not in the least bit intimidated, Arta squeezed every ounce of scorn she could manage into her voice. "Fine, because neither of us need to join your shower of pathetic deadbeats. Go play your juvenile games amongst yourselves. No woman with more than half a brain is gonna do anything but laugh at your underdeveloped manhood, you jerk-off."

It felt good to be lashing out at someone, especially a dick wad like Butch. He was a bully without any real guts, and she was confident she could face him down. The edge of hysterical rage in his voice confirmed her opinion.

"You should be more careful before messing with the Tunnel Snakes. What – you think you can waltz around like you're the Queen of the Vault, just because you're on carpet munching terms with the Overseer's daughter? Think again, you fucking dyke."

The coincidental closeness to the truth of Butch's riposte in turn inflamed Arta's temper.

"I'll go where I like and do what I want. I don't need that bitch's help to send you packing." She bit her tongue, but Butch was already seizing on the point of weakness.

"Oh, so you've fallen out with your lesbo friend. I wonder why. Is it 'cos she prefers solid snake meat to the taste of pussy?" Grinning in Hannon's direction, he added jeeringly, "Ain't that right, Paul? No secrets in the Tunnel Snakes. We know all."

Arta hit him. She did so without any thought, the violent reflex occurring before her brain could hold it back, as though her arm had developed a will of it's own. Blood spattered from his nostrils to wet her knuckles.

For a moment everyone froze as if a spell of paralysis had been cast. Then Mack and Hannon flung their captive into a corner, and squared up to Arta, fists bunched. Butch was still holding his nose and cursing.

Voices in Arta's head were screaming, _you idiot, look what you've done! _She put up her guard as best she could. Girls weren't supposed to learn the art of unarmed combat, but she'd sparred a few rounds anyway. Her opponents however looked like they were accustomed to this kind of fighting, and were moreover heavier and stronger.

Mack swung out with his fists. Arta ducked and counter-punched but failed to connect. As she tried to recover her stance, a blow from Hannon to the guts took all the air out of her lungs. She doubled up coughing blood. Hands like steel traps grabbed her and flung her backwards. Her head cracked against the metal wall, and for a moment everything dissolved into bright light and noise.

She could hear Butch shouting, "Teach the fucking bitch a lesson!" The sound seemed distorted, like in a nightmare.

Through a blurry haze, she was aware that her jumpsuit was being unzipped. Mary started to scream, then was abruptly silenced in some way. Once again she could feel rough hands groping for her breasts. But this time she could do little but feel nausea, as her arms were pinned down. She spat in her tormentor's face, prepared herself for the expected retaliation.

"What in tarnation's going on here?"

It was a folksy expression that might have seemed alien in such an isolated outpost of the human race. But it was a feature of Vault 101 that the old ways and values died hard. Indeed the pre-war culture had been remarkable for its persistence at a time when technology was advancing rapidly. Little had changed socially from the 1950s onwards. 101 heretics with a historical bent, like Arta's father, speculated that it was this failure to change out-dated ways of thinking combined with ever more deadly weapons that had finally brought on the Nuclear Apocalypse.

Herman Gomez's life was as far removed from that of a regular county officer patrolling the pre-war boondocks of DC as it was possible to imagine. Yet he still retained a patient solidity and dignified calm which his far off in time counter-part would have recognised as an asset to an officer of the law. Some members of Vault 101's security team were self-important bullies who enjoyed abusing their petty authority. Gomez had no inclination to do anything other than maintain order with the minimum possible force, in a way designed to cause the least aggravation to himself and others. Nevertheless he resembled most police officers in being fully prepared to come down hard on anyone who fucked with him beyond the limits of his tolerance.

The chance to do exactly that with these Snakes sons of bitches was too good to miss. Their louche manners and mocking of authority was an example of the sort of moral decay that could rot Vault society. He certainly didn't want their sick influence affecting his own son, Freddie. True the lad showed no inclination, but he was something of a wide-eyed innocent.

"Why nothing, Officer Gomez." Butch dabbed his nose with one hand, while flinging a companionable arm round Mary, who flinched away from him. Mack and Hannon switched from holding Arta to leaning casually against the wall. "We were having a little harmless fun with these lovely lay-dees. You know how young women can get carried away."

"I don't know any such thing." Gomez laid one hand on the comfortingly smooth wooden surface of the truncheon that swung from his belt. "There's blood all over the place. Seems to me you folks have got some explaining to do."

"Its just these nose bleeds I get from time to time." Butch had recovered his swagger but Mary was having none of it.

"Arrest them, Officer Gomez!" she cried, pulling herself out of the gang leader's grasp. "They tried to rape us!"

"She's being hysterical. You know, they think they want it, then they change their minds." Butch gave an Italian style shrug.

Gomez thoughtfully scratched the iron-grey stubble on his chin. "Now this here's a serious charge," he announced solemnly. "And I'm going to have to take you boys in for questioning."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Butch nodded in the direction of Hannon. "Being as his dad's your boss?"

"You come here, young feller." Gomez reached out and grabbed Butch by the lapels of his leather jacket, lifting him off his feet. "And listen close. My boss is the Overseer, and I'll take this straight to him if I think it necessary. And Chief Security Officer Hannon will support me, you understand?"

"Okay! Okay! Blow your promotion chances if you want. Just put me down."

Gomez let Butch slump. "Still I'm gonna need corroboration. Artemesia, are you bringing this accusation as well? Did these boys try to rape you?"

Arta glanced across to Butch, now rubbing his bruised neck, then at Mary, watching her anxiously, finally back to the security officer. She said quietly, "It's like Butch said. It got a bit out of hand, but it was nothing much. I'm not accusing anyone." She turned away to avoid Mary's disappointed eyes.

Gomez nodded. "Then there's nothing more I can do." He turned back to the now grinning Tunnel Snakes. "Take yourselves out of here, and don't let me hear of anything like this again." Taking the longest time possible, the gang swaggered off down the corridor, giving the occasional mocking backwards wave.

After they had disappeared, Gomez gave Arta a sharp glance. "If you should change your mind about this, or there's any further trouble, you come straight to me, d'you hear?" Arta nodded. Gomez added, more gently, "Or maybe you'd like to drop by and visit Freddie some time. I think he really likes you." She managed a faint smile, and he winked at her before turning on his heel and leaving.

Once they were alone, Mary asked, "Why didn't you support me? Those pieces of shit deserved to be locked up and beaten!"

Arta looked at her feet "I'm sorry. You're right – they did deserve it." She turned her eyes up again to meet Mary's. "But … but the Overseer wouldn't have believed us."

"Why … why would you think he wouldn't?"

"Well, he might've. But he would've pretended that he didn't."

Mary shook her head. "You're not making any sense."

"Because he hates my father. And he'd like to see me humiliated to get back at him."

Mary regarded her with doubt. "Really? If you're right, then that totally sucks. With the Overseer against you, your life here is going to be so difficult."

Arta shrugged. "How much more difficult could it be? Hardly anyone gives a shit about me. Even Amata doesn't really care."

Mary looked worriedly at her, then suddenly smiled. "But _I _care. In spite of what you just did, at least you saved me from those arse-holes. I'll tell Tom you're a good sort of person."

Arta said glumly, "You're better off avoiding me. I may bring you down with me. Like Jonah in that story about the whale."

"I'll take that risk. Hey, how about we go to the refectory for a coffee? Maybe we can even wangle ourselves a beer each."

Arta considered, then she too smiled. "Very well. I guess I could do with something to cheer me up. It's been one of those days."

"C'mon then." Mary suddenly nudged Arta. "So, Freddie Gomez! I didn't realise! You're a dark horse!"

Arta chuckled and linked arms with her as they walked off. "What d'you mean? It was the first I'd heard about it. I mean the guy is so lame …"

Amidst the all-enclosing metal walls and the all-enclosing mental barriers, against the madness that pressed from the inside out, laughter was a fragile defence. It takes but one stone to disturb the calmness of the still pond, the ripples spreading out and out.

* * *

*Yes, this chapter has pushed things a little beyond the usual comfort zone with respect to the Tunnel Snakes' misdemeanours, and might seem to contradict earlier comments about the general dull, placidity of the Vault. My thoughts, which you are free to dispute, are that the oppressive, stultifying dominant culture of the 50s, which in Fallout continued up to and beyond the apocalyptic War, concealed a seething mass of passions below the surface, waiting for an opportunity to break out. This applies even more to the supposedly tranquil Vault 101 society. The game (spoiler warning) shows similar examples in the Wasteland, like Andale, where folks can be chatting amiably with you one moment, and trying to kill and eat you the next.

And not only in the Fallout world. This was brought home to me yesterday when reading about the gunman who'd gone on a killing spree in nearby normally peaceful rural Cumbria. Inevitably neighbours described him as a 'normal, quiet bloke.'*


	4. Unscientific Pursuits

Ch 4 Unscientific Pursuits

Eating bland varieties of processed artificially grown foods, while cooped up claustrophobically with her fellow Vault dwellers within the confines of a small, dingy cafeteria, had never been Arta's favourite part of the day. _Thank you Vault-tec. Installing something more mess hall size might have made the experience less trying. _The philosophy perhaps had been to bring residents together in close proximity, while giving them some choice of tables to sit at. In practice the compromise made the formation of cliques even more likely than if there had been one huge family size table or a large number of small ones, and provided numerous opportunities to snub and exclude persons outside one's own circle.

By custom and from practical necessity, children ate first with their parents, followed by other adults, and finally teenagers. Previously Arta and Amata had found themselves sitting together in exile from the favoured youth faction, occasionally joined by other _persona non grata _like Freddie Gomez. They hadn't cared much, as they enjoyed each other's company, and despised most of the rest of their peers. Now a realignment had taken place. Arta was still out in the cold with the Holden twins (who formed their own separate group). Amata, on the other hand, had been invited to the 'top table', alongside Suzy Mack, her brother Wally and sidekick, Christine Kendall. Tunnel Snakes were not usually considered amongst the self-styled elite, so Wally only made the grade thanks to his sister's higher social status. If the Vault had been a high school, then Suzy would have made herself its home coming queen by the usual methods of shameless self-promotion, backstabbing and scandal mongering. Members of her 'court' tended to have the same belief in their own superiority.

As the Overseer's daughter, Amata would have almost automatically gained a place in this charmed circle, had she not absolutely disdained to join in favour of associating with known 'losers'. Now it seemed as though she'd come into her inheritance, taking a place of honour next to Suzy, while they nudged each other, giggled and cast disdainful glances in the direction of the 'lower orders'. Despite the best efforts of the Holdens to be nice, Arta couldn't help being goaded into wrathful thoughts.

_Look at her sitting there as though she really is Queen of the Vault! What a turncoat! _But she found the hostility difficult to maintain at a deeper level. Amata's behaviour was undoubtedly aimed at her, yet the motives behind it were harder to figure out. Several times during the meal, she came close to meeting Amata's eyes, only for the Overseer's daughter to flick them away before the point of contact. _It's like we're fencing over something, something that I don't understand. And that gives her the advantage._

When Arta went to help herself to her favourite (or least disliked) food, Algae Ice cream, she suddenly found Suzy alongside her, her expression affable, blue eyes wide and innocent. Arta wasn't fooled; she knew to get ready for the stiletto in the back.

"So, Arta," Suzy began, scooping at something that resembled chocolate ice cream mostly because it was frozen. "How's it going with your new friends?"

Arta noticed Suzy had quite deliberately put this question loud and clear enough for everyone present to hear, an easy feat to achieve considering the miserable size of the diner. She responded in kind.

"Well enough. I find them more reliable than some of my old ones."

"I'm so glad to hear that." Suzy abstractedly ran her fingers through her lustrous golden locks, smoothing back her ponytail. "Because I'd heard that you'd been feeling very lonely of late."

Arta realised she was being set up for something. But she wasn't being allowed to see where the knife was coming from, and had limited room to maneuver.

"Why on earth would you think that?"

Suzy bared her perfect, white teeth like a shark ready to attack. "Oh, a little bird told me." She glanced significantly in Amata's direction. "And we all know how desperate lonely girls can get."

_Where's this going? _Arta thought. _Surely Amata wouldn't tell her about …_

"So desperate," Suzy continued, not waiting for Arta to retort, "that she might secretly get Mr Handy Andy to make her a very handy object. One that made her feel … less lonely."

Andy was the maintenance robot, but was fully capable of manufacturing complex mechanisms, usually under the direction of Stanley, the technician. He was, however, designed to be obliging to any and all requests within his capabilities.

_Oh, no, Amata wouldn't have shown her … she wouldn't!_

Just for a moment, like a conjuring trick, the long, smooth object was visible in Suzy's hand, before vanishing again. She formed her lips into an 'O', and emitted a little gasp in Arta's direction, mimicking sexual ecstasy, then smiled sweetly.

Arta was aware of her cheeks turning a fiery red, of everyone looking at her, of cruel giggles and whispers. She felt every bit as humiliated as Suzy had intended her to. Thanks to Amata, the Vault's Number One Bitch had made a proper job of crushing her self-esteem, giving her no alternative but to walk away, enduring mocking looks and sly remarks.

She left her ice cream untouched, and began the march of shame, desperately trying to avoid looking directly at anyone. And it was at that point, as her glance darted from face to face, that her eyes finally encountered Amata's. The Overseer's daughter had a curious expression on her face, a half-smile that spoke of secrets. _Why? Why is she doing this? And what is she planning to do next? It's no use. I have to go talk to dad._

_

* * *

_

When Arta entered the surgery, her father was poring over a specimen slide, his grave blue eyes intent. She clattered against a stool and he turned, a little startled. His neatly trimmed grey hair, beard and air of composure gave him the appearance of a venerable sage or enlightened seer. But there was still more than a hint of the vigour and intensity he had passed on to his daughter.

As always, Arta's feelings about him were in conflict, torn by different impulses. She respected his intelligence, could relate to his freedom of thought and vision; her imagination responded to the passion which he had never successfully concealed. Yet at the same time she felt intense frustration at the self-imposed restraints and limits he had placed upon himself – and her as well. It seemed excessively cautious and – yes – even cowardly. Especially his insistence that they should outwardly conform to the Vault regime. She knew that privately he despised the Overseer as much or even more than she did. But she was his precious daughter, who must be protected and treated as though she were made of china. He had taught her to think freely, while denying her the freedom her thoughts implied.

And always appearing so mild, so unassuming. Why couldn't he see that to bring about change you had to be ready to fight, to take risks? It was all very well having ideals, but you had to find a practical way of realising them. And sometimes that meant compromising, sacrificing some values to achieve your goals.

She remembered a conversation she'd had with him when she'd been thirteen years old; mature enough to begin to wonder about the culture she'd been born into. The hacking skills she'd acquired with some help from Jonas had allowed her to access some of the Vault's oldest historical records. She hadn't really found out anything that important but, for the first and last time, she'd excitedly related her discoveries to her father. She'd thought he would be intrigued, interested – instead he'd reproved her severely for breaking the rules. She felt betrayed.

"But it's not like I've done any harm," she'd sniffled. "Why do they try to keep this stuff secret anyway?"

"That's not the point," he'd lectured. "The Overseer is his wisdom has decreed certain regulations. If you want to keep on his good side, you'd better get used to them."

"You don't even agree with his silly rules!" she'd protested.

"Maybe not. But I _do _agree with keeping them."

Though he'd taught her to question everything, this was the first time she'd seriously challenged his judgement.

"Why should I give a damn, especially if I can avoid getting caught?"

"Listen Arta, it's important because you need a behaviour code of some sort. One of the things which separate us from lower forms of life is that we are capable of moral judgements, we have laws and rules. Otherwise chaos reigns."

She'd been surprised at his intensity. Surely this shouldn't be a big enough issue to upset him? It was almost as if there were some hidden meaning behind his words, an agenda she knew nothing about.

She'd carried on arguing. "The famous leaders I read about in the hidden files: Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill. They only kept to a code when it suited them. When it was necessary for the interests of their nation, they acted ruthlessly. If we're supposed to learn from history, isn't the message that you do what you must to survive?"

Her father had shaken his head sadly. "If you lose your most precious values, then what does your survival matter? You've given up the most important part of your humanity."

"And if it's a choice between that and oblivion?"

He'd sighed deeply. "If you become a good citizen of the Vault, I doubt it'll come down to that." Casting his eyes upwards: "If any poor souls remain up there, it's for them to deal with those dilemmas. That's why here's the best place for you to be."

The argument had never been resolved. Arta wondered if it ever would be. But right now, none of this, none of her reservations was important. She simply wanted the comfort her father could provide. Weeping she flung herself into his arms.

"Honey, what is it? What's wrong?" he said, holding her, and patting her gently on the back.

She felt like a little girl again, needing to bury herself in his embrace. "Daddy, oh daddy!"

For a while he held her without saying anything more, and that was fine, that was what she wanted, secure arms around her, somewhere soft and warm to rest her head.

Eventually she looked up, and he began to brush her hair back into place with small, affectionate movements.

"So, anything you want to tell me about?"

She met his eyes, tried to speak, failed, looked down again. Not because the words weren't there. The emotion was too sharp, the hurt too much at this moment.

Finally, with an effort, she said, "Dad, was there anytime, with Mom, when … when you were afraid that she didn't love you?"

His stroking of her hair stopped abruptly, then started again more hesitantly. For a moment pain creased his eyes. He seemed to be thinking back. "I suppose there might have been a time, early on. But to be honest with you, I don't recall it. Perhaps I don't want to. As I remember, ours was like the love at first sight you read of in books. We were drawn together as though by fate. And that's how it remained until … until."

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to …"

"No, it's alright. I … I like it when you ask about her. So much of you reminds me of how she was. When I look at you now, all grown up …"

"Oh, dad!" The sigh that came from her was wrung out.

"And that's why when you hurt, it hurts me double. If there's anything I can help with … but I'm guessing that its someone else … someone important to you, that's the cause of this. Am I right?"

She nodded. Then she said, "It's Amata."

"You've quarrelled? I know how these things can happen – perhaps there's a boy that you both like and …"

"No … _no! _That's _not _the problem. As if one of those stupid jerks could cause us to split." Looking straight at her father, she said, "You see, its _her_. It's just her. She's the one that I …"

She could see understanding dawning on him. And he said, "Oh!" very quietly. Then he pulled her in close to him, pressed her head to his.

She had always known that he would understand, would not condemn. She hadn't talked to him about her feelings for Amata because … well, because it didn't seem the sort of thing to be talking about with her dad. Now though she was glad she could, and that he was accepting. There was no need for him to say it, but he did anyway.

"I love you … and I want you to be happy if you can. You're sure, you're quite sure, aren't you, that your feelings are genuine, that this isn't some girlish crush?"

"I am quite sure … but I don't think that she feels the same. Even though … even though we … we slept together."

"I see … it's that serious then. And you think … that she doesn't love you?"

"Yes … and … it hurts, daddy, it hurts." She began to dissolve into tears again.

"Oh, my dear! Of course, it does. But don't … don't give up hope. At least there's something there to work with, some kind of relationship."

"That's what I thought. But now it seems like she's trying to hurt me deliberately. She's started sucking up to that bitch Suzy and her crowd. And it can only be to spite me. Because she's so much better than that."

Her father stroked his beard thoughtfully. "True. Did she actually say that she didn't love you?"

"No, not in so many words. She said something about not having time to think about it, about us being too young. But dad, I don't think …"

He gripped her arm reassuringly. "Then there's still a chance that if you _give_ her that time …"

She saw then that this would be his last word on the subject. His damned optimism again! And she couldn't tell him what had just happened. It would hurt him too much, and it might cause more trouble. She tried another approach.

"I've had enough of this stinking hole in the ground. There's nothing for me here. Somehow I've got to get out. I'll die if I don't!"

He went back to stroking her hair. "Please, honey, don't talk like that. You may feel like that now. You're at an age when … when things often seem worse than they are. I promise you, they'll get better eventually. You'll see."

The same old conversation! She felt the frustration rising in her heart, her bowels, the tears gathering, nearly choking off her words.

"They never will. So long as I'm here, things will never be right."

"Oh, Artemesia, my darling." Again he held her sobbing. It was quite some time before he was able to begin drying her tears with a medical sponge.

Dabbing away, he said, "Even if that were true, which it isn't, you know what the Overseer always says …"

"Yes: _'We're born in the Vault, we die in the Vault.' _Except that you don't believe that, do you, dad? Do you?"

He was unable to meet her eyes, hesitated, then gave a half-shake of the head which could have meant … anything.

"There has to be a way out. People got in once, so they can get out. There _has _to be."

She wished then that she could tell him. Tell him about the preparations she'd made, was still making. Training her body, training her mind. Learning skills that might help, learning anything she could about the history of the world outside, and what changes might be expected to have occurred after humanity's final worst mistake.

But he wouldn't understand. He might even try to prevent her; stop Jonas helping or make her access to information more difficult. She would carry on alone, and someday, someday soon, she would be ready. Ready to leave.

Kissing the top of her head gently, he said. "You look tired. Why don't you go and rest, maybe sleep a little. Things may seem better afterwards."

* * *

Arta threw herself down on her bed fully clothed, burying her head in her pillow, hoping thereby to inter her tormenting thoughts. But the internal chatter would not be so easily silenced.

_Was Dad right about Amata?_ Her inner voices were uncertain. _He's always thinking that if only people are sweet and reasonable, the world's gonna flow with love and sugar bombs for all, _sneered Kick-arse Arta._ As though that'll ever happen. He doesn't feel your pain, no-one can, _complained Romantic muse_. But maybe he's got a point. Amata doesn't know what she wants right now. When she does, she'll come to realise she really loves you. You shot your mouth and took her by surprise, _agreed Smart Arta_. Keep your own counsel, make her sweat a little and maybe things will break for you._

_What can I do, what can I do? I hurt so much. Dad's advising me to give her time. That time could be agony for me. I need to try forgetting about this for a while, just get on with things. Suppose I seduced Jonas to make her jealous? But she didn't seem bothered when I told her … oh this is too confusing! I'll try to sleep, and perhaps my head will be clearer._

Eventually Arta's tired mind sank into oblivion, but not before the pillow had been well watered with her tears. When she awoke, the Vault had entered the period before the night cycle designed by its engineers to simulate twilight. The service lights were at a subtly lower level of dimness. She felt alert as a night hunting animal before the hours of darkness.

_I'll go to the lab,_ she thought. _If Jonas is there, then we'll see what happens. And if he isn't, well there's always that map data he claimed got erased. I can probably hack almost any computer in the Vault by now. I'll soon find out if he's lying. Another psychological advantage for me._

As she got closer to the lab, she habitually moved into sneak mode, a game she had played since early childhood. To move quietly, to blend into the background and make use of the shadows, to keep out of someone's line of vision. It was fun hiding from people, not letting them know you were watching or listening. And it was useful. In this case, she preferred that her entry should be undetected.

The lab door was locked. This wasn't unusual, and Arta had come prepared. She always kept a few bobby pins about her. Essential equipment for a Vault child with an acute sense of curiosity. It took a matter of seconds working the tumblers into the right position.

Once the door was sufficiently open to slip through, Arta adopted a crouch and moved quickly and quietly, immediately closing it behind her, to creep into a concealed position behind a bench. She wasn't surprised to find the lights in the lab almost as low as in the artificial twilight of the corridors. If the room was unoccupied, her task was made that much easier.

Except that it wasn't. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she heard a low groan from somewhere near. In fear, she pressed her shoulders hard against the bench, availing herself of its concealment, although this made it impossible to immediately locate the source of the noise.

It came again, heartfelt and accompanied by other smaller, softer, ominously fleshy sounds. Arta's imagination, fuelled by spending her younger years reading pulp science-fiction, conjured up a hideous array of possibilities: an illicit experiment performed on a human subject: a lab grown mutation escaping and devouring its creator: an alien embryo implanted and tearing itself from its human host.

When her thoughts had begun to cease racing, and the fierce pounding of her heart had subsided, she began to apprehend that the moaning did not seem like the sound of someone in torment. More and more the exclamations and gasps appeared to be those of extreme pleasure. Curiosity overcoming her fear, she gradually slid herself along the side of the bench, and very slowly and cautiously poked her head out to look around the side.

Jonas stood less than ten feet away, his back half turned towards her. He was completely naked, and Arta could see, by the yellow light of a small lamp, little runnels of sweat trickling down his spine to follow the curve of his tight buttocks. The moaning was issuing from his own lips. becoming ever louder and more urgent,

Driven by an overwhelming fascination, Arta shifted herself yet further, in order to see more of the front of his body, still cut off from view in her hiding place. As she did so, she became aware that Jonas was looking downwards towards someone crouched at his feet.

It was Amata. Her slim, nude body was partly in shadow, but her face was clearly visible.

When Arta's shocked mind finally registered what the Overseer's daughter was doing, she felt an intense urge to vomit, and leaning forward, put her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the gag reflex. Then, instinctively jerking herself backwards to prevent discovery, her head collided with the hard metal surface.

She almost stopped breathing. The steady rhythm of the sounds continued uninterrupted. Amata and Jonas were too preoccupied to notice anything unusual. Unaware of the girl huddled in a fetal ball behind the bench, images of carnality burning on her retinas. Her mind in such turmoil that at first she hardly noticed that Amata had begun to speak.

"No, not in my mouth. Not on my breasts either. I want you to come inside me."

"Oh, babe, please, I'm almost about to come already!"

"Just do as I say. On the couch."

Arta felt herself becoming disassociated from her surroundings. The sickness and the blow to the back of her head receded. Instead she was aware of the pounding of blood in her brain, the tightness of her chest and jaw, the clenching of her fists and teeth. A tide of black sorrow flooded through her, so that she felt she must throw back her head and howl, but even as that wave passed, another followed of anger red as blood, rising and still rising until it shook her to the core. It seemed to her that the metal walls of the Vault were closing in around her, all the weight of earth between her and the outside world pressing down, as she crouched, focused only on the space inside her skull, and the murderous rage that filled it.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she began to crawl forward. Her brain, operating on its most primitive level, kept her moving silently towards her objective. The background sighs and moans scarcely registered.

The chest was in exactly the same position on the workbench. She was forced to rise to a half-crouch to reach it. From this position, she could see the examination couch on which Jonas had mounted Amata, his buttocks pumping furiously, her white body moving beneath him.

Arta's trembling fingers searched, encountered the hilt of the gun, wrapped themselves tight around it. With her other hand she grabbed a handful of bullets. Hunkering down behind the bench again, she began to slot them methodically into the revolver's empty chambers. Finally clicking the cylinder shut, she rose to her feet. Every part of her body trembled with the insane fury which had possessed her, as if some demon of the underworld had claimed her soul.

In a corner of her mind, a voice tried to make itself heard. _Stop. Stop now. You'll go mad. If you don't stop, you'll never find yourself again._

But it was drowned out by the ever louder, fiercer litany in her head: _bitchbitchbitchbitchbitch. _The urge to scream out loud was becoming almost unbearable. She clicked off the revolver's safety, raised the gun double-handed in front of her as Jonas had taught.

On the couch, the two bodies had thrashed themselves almost to a climax, moans and gasps commingling.

"Come on, harder. Make me come." Amata moaned in what seemed urgent, extravagant ecstasy.

_Too much. Just a little too much. Not real. It's not real._

Strange how her mind, battered by the assault of emotions never before experienced, had managed to focus on this one thing out of place. A tone of voice, an outcry. _Fake, not real. Why, why, why? Stop, you fool, stop before it's too late!_

And it was just enough for the voice of reason to regain control, to banish the howling madness that would have made her gun them down there and then, transforming their entwined bodies into bloody corpses.

But still she had to find out _why_.

Jonas gave a final groan, and climaxed. His head fell forward onto Amata's shoulder. The Overseer's daughter also seemed in the throes of orgasm. Except that Arta was convinced that for some seemingly inexplicable reason she was faking it.

Amata opened her eyes. And looked straight into the gun barrel. She gave a little gasp, and clutched Jonas.

Indistinctly he asked, "What is it, babe?" Then turning his head, he exclaimed, "What the fuck …jesus, what are you doing?"

Arta knew that she had to play out this farce or tragedy to its end. "Get up. On your feet. Now … down on your knees."

They scrambled to comply with her orders, Jonas shaking like a leaf, Amata wide-eyed but with a greater degree of control.

Almost babbling in fear, Jonas pleaded, "Arta, if I'd known you felt like this, I would never have … I mean, it would've been you here instead … oh, god, please don't shoot!"

"Shut up you fool! Do you really think I'd be bothered where you put your cock if it wasn't for her?"

"Her … what are you talking about?" Then Jonas started to laugh hysterically. "Oh, I get it now! Oh, this just about caps everything! Oh, Christ, oh heavenly Christ!"

Unexpectedly Amata snapped, "Arta's right, Jonas. You should shut the fuck up, you miserable coward!"

Arta turned her attention back to Amata. The Overseer's daughter seemed to be regaining her composure, and her light brown eyes were calm and steady.

Feeling her heart throbbing, she asked simply, "Why?"

Amata seemed to be expecting the question. She said, "Do you really want to know the truth?" Arta nodded. "Then I'll tell you."

"W, wait a minute," Jonas interjected nervously. "When she says she wants to know the truth, it doesn't have to be the _whole_ truth, does it? I mean think carefully about what you're saying here. Or those words are gonna be your last."

"I said, shut it." Looking directly at Arta, she said, _"I don't love you."_

"Oh shit!" Jonas moaned in terror. "Oh holy fuck! This is good, this is nice. We are going to die!" Pleading again, "Arta, don't listen to her, she doesn't know what she's saying!"

Arta cocked the pistol, strictly unnecessary, as it was a double-action pull, and pointed it at Jonas. "Stay quiet while she speaks, or I'll blow your head off." Jonas subsided into terrified silence.

Amata continued. "I don't love you, and I will never love you. But I needed my friend back. There's no-one else here I care two shakes about." With a contemptuous nod at Jonas: "Least of all him. I wanted to kill your love. Kill it dead. That's why I've done all this. And I _wanted_ you to find out. So that, in the end, we could become friends again. But I never thought you would or could be angry enough to kill me."

When she had finished speaking, Amata continued to look firmly at Arta. _She's telling the truth. And she knows that I know._

Arta thought that she had never admired the Overseer's daughter so much as at that moment in time. She was facing death in the muzzle of the gun without flinching. _But perhaps she knows, or suspects, that I can't kill her, not now, not ever. Because I love her. Oh, bitter, bitter irony! After all that she's done to stop me, I love her even more.  
_

_

* * *

._

*I hope that wasn't as difficult to read as it was to write. I had in my mind the insane survivors of Vault 106. Even though (spoiler warning) the ultimate cause of their insanity was some kind of experimental drug, I still would think that the confinement and restrictions of Vault life could easily result in a tendency to psychosis amongst its inhabitants, awaiting the right trigger to set it off. Sexual jealousy is, of course, able to provoke this response in some people even without other factors.

I did find some humorous relief from the intensity in the tale of Andy's new line of 'toys' (even if the outcome was distressing for Arta). I mean, what's a girl to do when the powers that be aren't likely to approve of making such things, and there are no suitably shaped root vegetables or fruits available?

Vault food: (general spoiler warning) Assuming that Vault 101 has been isolated for considerable periods since the Apocalypse 200 years ago, it seems likely it would rely on growing its own food through some artificial means. Thus our favourite Fallout 3 foods like yum yum devilled eggs or Fancy Lads snack cakes would be rare treats, or simply unavailable, hence the 'Algae Ice cream'.

Double-action revolver: This means that a pull on the trigger will pull back the hammer, rotate the cylinder and fire (but most modern revolvers can also fire 'single action' by cocking the hammer first). Although without the speed advantage of auto-loading pistols, this kind of weapon can be more reliable.*


	5. Blood Ties

Ch 5 Blood Ties

Arta was dreaming she was outside the Vault. She was strolling through broad parklands, the sky blue overhead, white clouds drifting lazily. Beneath her feet, the grass was soft as temper foam, covered in a carpet of small yellow and white flowers. Trees stretched above her head, not barren, like in the combat simulation, but green with life, their myriad leaves rustling in the warm breeze. In the mid distance she could perceive an antique building, built of red brick, and set with many strangely elaborate panes of glass, the doors and window frames made of wood not metal.

Amata was by her side, their arms linked together. They were talking casually, intimately, like old friends who had just met up, rather than lovers long parted. Arta realised they were wearing clothes in a pre-war style she had only seen in pictures or forbidden movie-reels. She heard herself give a carefree laugh at something Amata had said.

_It's been nearly two years, and we've never kissed, hardly even touched. How can I bear it? How can I keep on bearing it?_

"Arta! Arta? For god's sake, wake up!"

Arta rose slowly to consciousness out of the deep well of sleep. She became aware of being shaken violently, and reacted instinctively to grapple with her supposed attacker.

"Arta, please stop, it's me, Amata!"

For a moment Arta's confusion was absolute. She was holding Amata, their faces close, almost like in the dream, the warmth of her body a haven of bliss.

"Amata? Where are we?"

"Where are we? We're in your sleep cell, of course. Arta, listen to me! Some terrible things have happened, are happening."

"Wha .. what?"

"Firstly – your dad's escaped from the Vault!"

Arta was suddenly completely awake. "_What!"_

"Yes, I know that sounds impossible. But he's done it. There's been an infestation of radroaches, and it seems like he left in the confusion. And my father's gone absolutely mad. He's saying James is a traitor - that he was heading a conspiracy to set the roaches loose and lead a mass escape. He's declared a state of emergency and started rounding up suspects. They took Jonas … and … and they killed him! Oh god, Arta!"

Arta asked dully. "They killed him? How?"

Amata dabbed at her eyes, which seemed to have tears in them. "They beat him and beat him, and wouldn't stop. And there's no telling who'll they'll come for next. Except …"

Arta had a sudden vision of Jonas, much younger and smiling, raising a camera to take a picture of her posing with her BB gun, her father with one arm around her. It had been her tenth birthday. But that was long ago, long gone. The most important thing now was that her father had gone. And had left her behind.

She said, "They'll come for me."

"Yes! I won't be able to protect you. My father's so angry he's past all reasoning with. And that's why you must go too."

"Go? How can I?"

"In exactly the same way that James did. He broke into my father's office, and opened a secret tunnel leading to the entrance. You just need the password for his personal workstation. I don't know what it is, but I'm sure you can find out. You've been good with computers since you were little."

Arta decided not to waste any time with further questioning. If escaping had involved slipping through the eye of a needle, she would've given it a shot. But one fact burned itself into her consciousness not to be forgotten: Amata had known a way to get out of the Vault, and hadn't told her until this moment. Another of the things the Overseer's daughter had concealed from her and a symptom of the breakdown of trust and friendship between them. Yet remaining too close to the woman she loved would have tested her sanity to breaking point.

She said, "OK, let's do it."

"I … I can't go with you. My place is here, trying to stop my father's madness. I'll help you as much as I can. I stole this gun. You can have it. Use it if you have to."

Amata was offering her a light, auto-reloading Beretta handgun. Arta found her brain was working as though on Jet. The gun was standard issue for Vault security; identical to the one she'd persuaded Freddie Gomez to 'borrow' from his father. She'd practiced with it until she could hit a small target seven times out of ten. Freddie, on the other hand, hadn't got anywhere near _his_ target of First Base before having to return it.

Amata's stolen weapon was likely to come in useful eventually, and yet …

"Hold on to it for now. You may need it. I've something better."

A metal shelf in her room contained a baseball bat, glove and cap. In her mind Arta could see the Vault Security team, with their visored riot helmets, batons and heavy Kevlar jackets. Fairly good protection from 10 mm rounds. But against a swift strike from behind with surprise … and radroaches were more susceptible to crushing.

She picked up the wooden bat, stuck the baseball cap squarely on her head. The latter wasn't strictly necessary. But it felt right somehow.

* * *

Arta crept along the Vault corridor, dimly illuminated by red emergency lighting. The baseball bat was still firmly in her grasp, but she now wore a black leather jacket emblazoned on the back with a twining serpent, and a Kevlar helmet with a strong, plastic visor protected her head.

Her clothes had changed, and her confidence had grown. Her absolute determination to escape remained as strong as ever. And luck had mostly been on her side.

The helmet had been acquired from the first security guard she had come across. The man had been engaged with a swarm of radroaches, grotesque creatures grown to almost a foot long due to the genetically distorting radiation. Arta had allowed him to kill all of them before clubbing him unconscious from behind. Her practical need for strong head protection had instantly overcome her sentimental attachment to the baseball cap.

The provenance of the leather jacket had been due to even more fortuitous circumstances. While moving through the Vault living quarters, she had encountered Butch, who had pleaded with her to save his mother, Ellen Deloria, from some radroaches.

She'd shaken her head in disbelief. The irony of the situation was apparent.

"You're begging me for help? Go on, beg some more. I like seeing you grovelling. But too bad for your mother that you tried to get me raped. She's mostly dead drunk anyway. Now she'll just be dead."

"OK, you want me to keep begging? I'll do it; I'll kiss your feet if you want. But don't let my mom die because I behaved like a total arsehole on one occasion."

"You mean like all the time, don't you? Look, if your mom means that much to you, why don't _you_ rescue her?"

Butch appeared on the verge of hysteria. "Because I'm a fucking coward, can't you see? And anyway, I've got no weapons."

Arta wasn't sure whether she'd agreed because she really wanted to help, or to stop the dismal hollering of the Tunnel Snakes leader attracting unwanted attention.

Once inside the tiny room, terrified screaming and the loathsome scuttering of the giant radroaches assailed her ears. Three of them were gathered around the cowering form of Ellen Deloria, and even as Arta watched one leapt up to attack, adding another laceration to the many bloody gashes the creatures had already inflicted.

She nerved herself to strike. Vault children had the fear of radiation and the danger of genetic mutation dinned into them by videos sternly warning of the need to maintain the 'purity of the species'. These misshapen monstrosities seemed the very embodiment of those terrors, and though the Geiger counter on her pip boy remained silent, she felt the same reluctance as Butch to go near them. But the urge to assist a defenceless fellow human was too strong, and she raised the bat to bring it down firmly in a crushing blow. Fortunately the roaches were intent on their prey and put up no resistance.

Once she'd pulverised the critters, Butch had been so grateful, he'd offered her his own Tunnel Snakes jacket. She'd resisted the strong temptation to shove it back in his face. While not providing as much protection as a Vault security uniform, it did allow her more freedom of movement to swing her weapon. She'd left Ellen drinking herself into insensibility while her son tended to her wounds.

Most of the rest of the escape had involved sneaking along Vault corridors left deserted by the security lockdown. She'd found that some Vault denizens remained on her side, or were at least indifferent, including Stanley, the technician and her old ally, Officer Gomez. Only once had she regretted not taking the pistol Amata had offered.

In one of the Vault's largest open areas, the Atrium, often used for sports and entertainment, she had come across the Holden twins. Driven either by hope or fear, these two were also trying to find some way out of the Vault.

Tom, the elder by a few minutes, was quite as handsome in appearance as his sister was pretty. Arta had tried dating him, but had never gone beyond the petting stage. She had found him nice but not particularly interesting.

He was also prone to occasionally reckless behaviour. As Arta approached them silently, he was gesticulating wildly, pointing towards the corridor that Vault legend suggested might lead to the exit.

Mary was protesting strongly. "No, Tom, it's far too dangerous. They might hurt you, even shoot you."

"Look, I've got to give it a try. Richards and O' Brien have known me since I was a kid. They're not going to gun me down."

Before Arta could intervene or even speak, Tom set off running towards the end of the passageway. He shouted, "Hey, Officer Richards, it's me, Tom Holden. I only want to talk …"

He disappeared from view. Then, with appalling suddenness there came a long burst of gunfire.

"Tom?" Mary called tremulously. There was a groan, followed by the sound of more shooting.

"Tom!" Mary shrieked. She had been about to run forward, when Arta caught her.

"Mary, it's me, Arta. Stay back, they'll shoot you too!"

"No!" Mary cried. "Tom, I'm coming!" With sudden maniacal strength, she pulled herself free.

She hadn't even reached the beginning of the passageway, before a hail of bullets struck her. Arta saw her brains splatter into a metallic grill in the floor and had vomited there and then. Looking in revulsion at the first human corpse she had ever been close to, she was struck by horror at the transforming power of death: a living, talking human being had been suddenly transmuted into a torn and bloody mess.

The memory of the slaughter made Arta grind her teeth. After Amata's betrayal, and the ruck with the Tunnel Snakes, Mary had become her closest friend. Maybe if she'd had a gun she might've been able to save her. Regardless of that, someone ought to pay for those deaths. Arta had a definite notion of who that should be. And she was close now to having her revenge. Avoiding the fatal corridor, she had climbed the stairs to the Vault's upper level, past the mutilated body of Chief Security Officer Hannon, past Stanley fussily trying to repair Andy from fire damage caused by his own misdirected flamethrower, until she had reached the part of the Vault containing Amata's sleeping quarters, and the Overseer's office.

She paused to listen. There were sounds of a heated discussion coming from an open doorway up ahead. From her past visits to Amata's quarters, Arta knew it led to the security station, which she would need to pass to reach her goal. Strong light was spilling into the corridor, reducing her chance of sneaking past without being noticed.

Arta stiffened as she recognised the Overseer's voice. She moved closer, to crouch just below the level of the heavily reinforced window.

The Overseer said, "Officer Mack, I commend your devotion to duty, but Amata has already told you she knows nothing about what's happened to Wendell's daughter. Haranguing her in this way is merely a waste of time."

Another voice, which Arta identified as belonging to the deceased Hannon's second-in-command replied gruffly, "Sir, I have to ask whether you've considered the possibility that she might not be telling the truth?"

Arta's heart beat faster as she heard Amata's voice. The Overseer's daughter had of late adopted a haughty demeanour, and this was clear in the tone she now used.

"You dare to suggest I'm lying! On what grounds?"

The Overseer cut in with, "Yes, Officer Mack, I have to agree you're overstretching the bounds of your newly acquired authority. Remember you're addressing my daughter."

Driven by the need to know which way the participants in the conversation were facing, as well as simple curiosity, Arta very carefully raised her head to the level of the window. She was rewarded with a view of the well-lit room. Amata and her father, Alphonse, were sitting on one side of a metallic desk; both appearing somewhat tense. Facing them across it, as though in opposition, was the burly and moustachioed form of Officer Mack, Wally and Susie's father, a member of the security team known for his irascible, bullying tendencies. Behind were the barred windows of a holding cell, currently open and unoccupied.

Mack said doggedly, "Sir, I'm aware of the respect Amata is due, but as Acting Head of Security I must be allowed to investigate properly in cases of subversion. Your daughter has been known to closely associate with Artemesia Wendell in the past."

Alphonse replied rather testily, "That may well be true, but more recently they've cooled in their friendship to the point of being enemies. Exactly what are you suggesting?"

Mack opened a drawer in the desk, and drew out a clipboard. "Sir, at approximately …" he consulted the log sheet ponderously, " … fourteen hundred hours, your daughter entered this security post, ostensibly to take refuge from the radroaches. Shortly afterwards, a 10mm pistol was found to be missing from the gun lockers. Its my belief that your daughter may have conveyed this weapon to one of the fugitives."

Amata sprang to her feet. Fumbling in her jumpsuit pocket, she drew out the silver weapon. "Here's your damn gun! I simply borrowed it for personal protection. So much for your baseless accusations!"

Mack held out a gloved hand, "Can you return it to me please?"

Alphonse added fussily, "Yes, Amata, you really shouldn't be taking weapons without authorisation from security. I'm sure a person of your delicacy doesn't even know how to fire one."

Arta had noted that Amata's position allowed her to view the window, while the two men were looking towards her and away from it. She had been trying for some time to attract her attention, and finally succeeded. Their eyes met.

Looking from Arta back to the Acting Security Officer, Amata said suddenly, "Officer Mack! There's somebody outside!"

Arta cursed, and ducked down. Crouching low, she began to scurry back along the darkened corridor. Behind she could hear the clanking of Mack's heavy boots on the metal floor, and Alphonse shouting: "Amata, come back, it may be dangerous!"

Aware that Mack was close behind her, and not knowing whether he had a gun, Arta turned a corner and faced about, raising her baseball bat in anticipation. She could hear Mack pounding down the passageway after her. But as his steps approached the corner, they diminished in volume and frequency until she could hardly hear them above the sound of his heavy breathing.

_He's right next to the corner_, she thought, _and he knows I'm here._ Sweat trickled down her wrists, as she held the bat ready. _I'm going to have to fight him face to face._

As she waited for the inevitable confrontation, her ears caught another light step, not far behind Mack's assumed position. Just at that moment, the Security Officer moved into view. His side-handled baton was held in a defensive stance, and behind the transparent visor of his helmet, his piggy eyes seemed to bulge with rage. Arta drew a deep breath and prepared to strike.

The sharp report of a gunshot filled the corridor. Mack staggered, clutching his neck, from which bright blood was spurting. Two more shots followed in quick succession, and Mack twisted and fell. He lay prone, his breathing rasping and choked, feebly attempting to tear off his tactical vest. More blood was flowing from below his armpit, in the unprotected juncture of the bullet-proof jacket with his left arm.

Horror struck, Arta shouldered her weapon, and knelt beside him.

"He's had it."

Amata was standing over her, holding the smoking Beretta. She looked a trifle pale, but calm.

Looking down at the Security Officer's convulsing face, Arta said, "He isn't dead yet."

Before she could say or do anything else, the Overseer's daughter likewise knelt and, tilting up Mack's visor, placed the pistol muzzle against his forehead. Arta jerked away and shrieked, holding up her hands to shield herself as the gun roared, and blood and brains sprayed upwards to mist the glass.

Amata produced a handkerchief, and coolly began to wipe the Beretta clean.

"Now he is. Here, take this."

Alphonse Almodovar was sitting slumped with his head in his hands, and when Arta and Amata entered the room, he looked up despairingly. Arta held the Overseer's daughter in front of her, with one arm around her neck, and the pistol pressed against the side of her head.

"Amata!" For a moment he seemed glad merely to see his daughter alive. Then in a subdued tone, he asked, "What do you want with us?"

"Justice. I want justice." Arta looked down at the person she had always loathed and despised, and was surprised to find she felt at least a grain of pity.

"Then release my daughter and turn yourself in. There may still be the possibility of granting you leniency if you voluntarily surrender."

Tapping the gun, Arta said, "I'm calling the shots now. But before I pass judgement on you, I need information. Give me the password to the computer in your office."

With a sudden flash of anger, the Overseer snarled. "Why should I? You're a traitor, a renegade and a deserter! And what have you done to Officer Mack?"

"You can forget about any rescue. I … killed him!"

"Then you deserve no mercy, and I will ask none of you. Kill me, if you want. I won't help you."

For answer, Arta lowered herself into a crouch, perforce dragging Amata down with her. Still keeping her arm round her neck, she moved the gun from the side of Amata's head to point towards her face, advancing it until it was touching her lips. Amata stared fixedly at Arta. Then deliberately, she opened her mouth, allowing the pistol to slide between her lips.

Arta flicked the safety off with her thumb. She said, "I'm going to count slowly up to five. One … two …"

"Stop." There were tears in the Overseer's eyes. In a broken tone, he continued, "Please don't hurt my daughter. I will tell you what you want. The password … is _Amata_."

Arta removed the gun from Amata's mouth, and began to laugh weakly. She said, "What a joke! The most closely guarded secrets in the Vault – secured by the most obvious password of all! The gods must have enjoyed that one!"

Alphonse mopped perspiration from his head and beard. "Now that you know, may I ask what you intend to do?"

Arta laughed again. "Is that really so difficult to guess? So old, and yet so foolish?" Releasing Amata, she pointed the Beretta at the Overseer, and said harshly, "Turn around. Get down on your knees."

As Alphonse complied, she moved to stand behind him, and a little to one side. Her breaths came in pants. She knew what she wanted to do – what she ought to do. But now the time had come it was hard. When the madness had raged through her mind … so long ago, it seemed … killing had appeared like the natural thing to do. Until she came to her senses. _I'm not like Amata. She seems to be able to detach herself from everything. To think without emotion. My mind is always a battlefield._

To try to clear her thoughts and reaffirm her purpose, she began the speech that she had been composing on her journey through the Vault, "I'm going to list the crimes which you've committed. You've given orders that resulted in the killing of my friends, Mary and Tom, and in the murder of Jonas. You've given orders for my father and I to be hunted down. Most of all, you've kept us imprisoned in this metal coffin beneath the ground, fed on lies and starved of the truth until our minds have festered and become senile. For all these offences and inhumanities you deserve to die."

Arta paused. She could hear Alphonse's breathing matching the fast pace of her own. He said tersely, "Everything I've done has been for the good of the citizens of the Vault. I could not allow its integrity to be breached, so I ordered security to contain escapees by force. Perhaps my orders have been interpreted with greater vigour than I intended, and this may have led to unnecessary deaths. However it's a price I would willingly pay to maintain stability and safety. As for the rest, I've been your shield against horrors from Outside that would destroy you body and soul, and lay in ruin the Vault, which is the last true hope of humanity."

Arta hardly heard the Overseer's words. Her mind was focused on the weapon she held pointing at his head, a device that with a simple pressure of the finger had the power to erase a human existence. _It is justice, _she told herself. _It has to be done._

As her finger began to tighten, by some impulse she turned to look at Amata, who was standing close by watching. And the expression she saw on the face of the Overseer's daughter made her blood run cold.

Gloating. Triumphant. Gleeful.

_At last, _her eyes seemed to say. _At last I'm rid of him_.

It was there for no more than a brief moment, so that she might almost have thought it imagination, but it made her take her finger off the trigger.

_Merely for a fleeting look in the eyes!_

She said, "For your crimes I sentence you to rot in this dungeon of your own creation. I leave you your miserable, worthless life. You may call that, if you like, my mercy."

She lowered the gun, and flicked the safety to the 'on' position.

She glanced quickly at Amata again. The Overseer's daughter seemed to be struggling to contain her emotions. And, in Arta's thought, the most prominent of those emotions was _disappointed rage_.

* * *

*I hope I haven't disappointed too many people by concentrating on the story essentials. Some may have been hoping for more episodes from Vault life, but I felt I'd already touched on the subjects I wanted, and had no more to give. The sudden jump forward in time might seem arbitrary, but then the game does it too.

As far as the escape itself goes, I don't want to go over familiar ground where it can be avoided. I'm including those incidents that I consider have in some way been affected by the earlier part of the story. (For example, Mary's friendship with Arta adds extra significance to her death).

'_Nearly two years': _Arta was sixteen before, so she could be almost nineteen now, which is about correct for the Lone Wanderer.

Beretta pistol: to my knowledge, the standard US army auto-reloading pistol is currently manufactured by Beretta. Of course, Fallout is an AU as far as we're concerned, where Beretta might not exist and such pistols normally fire 10mm not 9mm rounds. But it sounds cool, so who gives a monkeys?*


	6. Rebirth

Ch 6 Rebirth

* * *

Arta stood looking down at the body of Jonas sprawled in front of the Overseer's office. The pure white of his lab coat had been previously sullied only by chemical stains. Now large splotches of arterial blood had spilled over the front of it as though onto the canvass of a painter with a taste for the macabre. His face twisted upwards showed no injury, and his eyes were closed so that, aside from the gruesome evidence of butchery, he might have been asleep. One arm was trapped beneath his coat; the other was outflung.

_What do I feel? For a man who perhaps intended no great harm, but whose weakness and lust led him into folly and degradation. My friend, my teacher, my would-be lover, my rival, my betrayer. Who at the last remained my father's faithful follower. The truth is, at this moment, I feel nothing. If Jonas deserves to be mourned, then it must be at another time._

She had not wanted to touch him, and it was Amata who had searched through his pockets to find the tiny data disk. Arta had downloaded it to her pip boy, and was listening to her father's parting message when Amata returned.

She had a small key in her hand. "I found this in my father's bedroom. It'll save us having to break into his office." Seeing that Arta was still caught rapt in a posture of listening, she asked, "So what's he saying?"

"Not that much. He regrets leaving me but won't say why he left. He tells me not to follow him. The same old rubbish about me being safe in the Vault. The same old self-justifying, sentimental, naïve, _pompous, ridiculous_… " she broke off to wipe tears away "caring, gentle, passionate same old dad. He said, _'I love you_.'"

"Yeah, that sounds like your dad all right. I wish mine was more like that." She added quickly, "But I'm grateful to you for sparing his life. I can understand why you wanted to kill him."

Still staring at Jonas, Arta thought, _I bet you can. I wonder if you wanted him dead as well. And if so, why? For the same reasons? Still he's your dad, for Christ sake! That look in your eyes, did I imagine it somehow? Am I going crazy again?_ She thought of how Amata had wept and clung to her father, the tearful parting as they had left him locked in the security cell. Was that genuine or simulated? Like her tears for Jonas? Why the hell would she weep for someone she apparently despised?

Amata put a hand on Arta's shoulder, rubbing it reassuringly. "I know this must be hard, must remind you of your other friends who were killed too. Just … try not to let it affect you too much. My dad's done some terrible things, but I guess he thought he had good reasons."

_Still harping on that? Are you trying to goad me? Make me regret I didn't kill him? _To Arta's eyes, Jonas' body had become almost meaningless, like staring at a pattern on the wallpaper.

Amata continued, "We need to hurry. Even if my dad believes you're holding me hostage, he still might send guards to try and rescue me."

Arta said suddenly, "You told me your father's goons beat Jonas to death. And yet I can see he's been shot in the guts. Maybe in the groin too. He must have died really painfully."

"They beat him, then shot him. I tried to spare you the gory details. Arta, you mustn't let this get you angry. C'mon, we don't have much time!"

"Wait a moment, what's this?" Arta knelt to examine the body more closely. Near to Jonas outstretched and bloodied hand were some strange marks. As though someone had used the blood to write with. A straight line sloping inwards at an angle to another line crossing it.

Amata was almost stamping her feet with impatience. "We don't have time for this, for fuck's sake!" When Arta continued to examine the marks, she bent to look over her shoulder. "It's like a sort of sloping cross. So what?"

"So why's it here? Did Jonas draw it before he died? In his own blood?"

"Who knows? Who cares? Maybe it's like his secret formula or something. Who gives a fuck? Let's get inside the office and down the hidden passageway before someone finds us."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Arta felt her mind searching for a solution to the puzzle. It was like hacking a computer; you looked for the right symbols to find the repeating pattern. But she couldn't see it yet.

* * *

"I think someone's outside."

At Amata's urgent whisper, Arta left the computer, and crouched down beside her. The office was darkened but the only remaining cover was a metal chair. The Overseer's desk had raised itself several feet off the floor to reveal the hidden passage, stone steps leading downwards into a tunnel with dim red lighting.

She could hear faint sounds of movement, like stealthy footsteps. At one of the office windows, the subdued lighting caught a gleam off a thermoplastic visor.

"It's Richards." Arta's whisper was so low it was merely a couple of breaths. She remembered the vicious gunfire that had scythed down Mary. But this wasn't the time to fight.

The noises continued, and now there came a fumbling at the locked door.

"C'mon, let's go!" Like hole-dwelling animals seeking their burrow, they scuttled into the tunnel. At the bottom, Arta noticed an electrical switch, and threw it. Overhead the entrance to the hidden passageway began to close.

Amata breathed a sigh of relief. "That should give us at least some time. Unless my father's there, they won't be able to get into the tunnel. He wouldn't tell them the password. Not considering what we found on the computer."

Arta gave a little shiver of excitement. There was no chance of that! What they had discovered in the secret files was far more dangerous to the Overseer's regime than her father's escape.

_The Vault had been open before! _An expedition headed by Anne Palmer had set out to explore the area above some thirty years before. And the Overseer had concealed the knowledge all these years! His lies were far worse than she could have imagined.

More than that, the expedition had made some staggeringly important discoveries. Not only was life sustainable above ground, but some kind of human civilisation remained. The survey team reported making contact with a nearby town called Megaton. And this was only one of a string of human outposts across the area once embraced by Washington DC. The Capital Wasteland, it was now called.

Arta's head was still spinning with the knowledge, her emotions in turmoil. Her fears about Amata had been pushed to the back of her mind. She had dreamed of escaping from the Vault, of finding a whole new world of places to discover and people to meet. Now that dream was close to becoming reality, and the anticipation, as well as the fear that it could be snatched away from her at the last moment, was so overwhelming that she felt she must burst.

As her mind buzzed like a hive of bees, Amata took her hand. Her touch felt cool but reassuring.

"The outer door can't be far. Let's get going!"

Arta shook her head to clear it, and her thoughts, trying to coalesce, threw up a seemingly random flash of information. That sign or symbol that Jonas had etched before dying: it could be half of the letter 'A'.

* * *

"This looks like the opening mechanism here."

The secret tunnel was behind, and they stood on a raised metal platform. Before them steps descended towards a huge circular plate set in the wall, with something of the appearance of a giant cogwheel.

_It must surely be the outer door of the Vault! It looks tightly sealed as though its never been opened, but we know that that isn't the case._

A small control panel was attached to the gantry. Arta's fingers tingled expectantly.

Amata said, "Wait."

Gently she took hold of Arta's hand, taking it away from the controls, and pulled her round so that they were facing one another.

She said, "Quite likely opening it will set off all sorts of alarms. We might not otherwise have time to say good bye."

Feeling a tugging at her heart, Arta said, "You haven't changed your mind then? Why don't you come with me?"

Amata shook her head. "I must stay. With the knowledge I've gained, I may be able to bring about changes. At the least, my father may be more amenable towards my suggestions." She smiled, "You know, the way the light reflects from the face shield of your helmet makes you look … like an angel somehow."

She stretched out a hand and carefully raised the visor in the manner that a groom lifts a bride's veil. Then she leant forward and kissed Arta. Not a formal farewell, but the deep, passionate kiss of a lover. Their mouths and tongues touched and lingered, parting in the end with regret. Arta breathed deeply, and her heart beat painfully. She felt she had wanted the kiss to last forever, to drink in Amata's warmth and vitality. Instead it seemed as if it had drawn out her very soul from her body.

_It is as though she has set her mark on me, binding me to her forever._

Amata stepped backwards and then nodded. Arta pressed a button on the control panel.

As Amata had predicted klaxons began to sound and emergency lights rotated and flashed amber. From a gantry above, a metallic device like a long probe descended and moved towards the circular plate. The end of it was clearly designed to fit into a slot in the door, as a key would a lock.

Arta felt a trickle of perspiration run down her brow. If this didn't work, and the alarms brought guards, then she would have to fight, and maybe kill someone, if they didn't kill her first. For there was no way that she was giving up on her dream now.

The probe inserted itself and rotated, then began to pull the entire plate outwards towards it, the mechanism creaking and groaning with the strain. Once it was clear, the heavy metal door rolled sideways with a loud clang. Dust trickled from behind it, bringing with it a strange odour.

Scarcely able to breathe, Arta peered into the dimness beyond. The opening of the door had revealed a tunnel, but it was like none she had ever seen before. She was reminded of pictures her dad had shown her from a camera inside the human intestines; the walls of the passage had the same irregular shapes, but were a greyish-white colour. She realised she must be looking for the first time at natural rock formations.

Amata gave a little jump in the air. "We did it! We've opened the Vault!" She embraced Arta. "You must go before anyone comes. I can deal with any guards as long as they don't see you. But first, promise me that you won't forget me."

_How could I?_ Arta felt suddenly bewildered at the succession of events and the imminent parting. She was sure though that, however far she travelled from the Vault, the memory of the Overseer's daughter would stay with her always.

"I promise." She clung to Amata as if she would never let her go.

Eventually it was Amata who firmly broke the embrace. Kissing Arta briefly one more time, she said, "Goodbye. Go now, go quickly."

Impelled by a sense of urgency, Arta descended the stairs. The walls of the tunnel felt rough to her touch, and the floor surface strangely uneven. Behind her she heard the hiss of a door opening, and immediately crouched down in the shadows. Looking back she could see two helmeted figures advancing towards Amata, truncheons raised and ready. She held herself as still as a statue, trying almost not to breathe.

Before the security guards could get any closer, Amata said suddenly, "Stop! What are you doing?"

The first guard, responding to the tone of command, said respectfully, "We're looking for fugitives escaping from the Vault, Miss Amata." Then in a tone of shock. "My god, the outer door's been opened!"

"Indeed it has, Officer Wolfe." Amata drew herself up. "I speak with the authority of the Overseer. He has commanded me to deal with this situation, and to reseal the Vault immediately. You are to make sure that no one else is able to pass this point."

The second guard asked uncertainly, "Should we search beyond the door?"

"Absolutely not! No one is to pass, including you! I will now close the door."

Wolfe muttered, "And a good thing too. I don't fancy going any nearer that funny stuff, whatever it is. Right, Park?" The second guard gave a shudder and nodded.

Arta, watching from the darkness, saw how Amata stood, chin tilted up arrogantly, one hand on hip, everything about her bearing showing her complete control of the situation. _She is so far above me. She always has been. _And then something in her mind went 'click', as the pieces of the puzzle fell together, and she perceived at last what Amata wanted.

She remembered as a small girl attending the funeral of a Vault resident who had met her death in an unusual accident involving Andy's rotating saw. A solemn ceremony was followed by the ritual feeding of the body to the incinerator. Beset by the anxieties of young children when faced with death for the first time, she'd asked her father what would happen if the Overseer ever died.

He'd appeared slightly amused by the question.

"After a suitable period of sad wailing, a new Overseer would be chosen. In the meantime the job would go to the Head of Security. That's Paul Hannon's dad, at the moment."

With the persistence of a child following a chain of reasoning to its absurd conclusion, she asked: "And what if Paul Hannon's dad died?"

"Then his deputy takes over. Oh, I can see where you're going with this. After that, the Chief medic or scientist gets his chance. And that's your own dear dad. So, little Arta … " he'd settled her on his knee. "Your dad's three heartbeats away from becoming the Overseer. Isn't that exciting … or scary?"

Hannon had been killed, apparently by radroaches. Mack had also died, shot through the head by Amata. Her father had fled, leaving Jonas as head of Science. And he'd been murdered.

And then if a renegade escapee were to strike down their leader, to whom would the citizens of the Vault turn? Respect for the rights of blood, a concept as old as human civilisation, had not lost all of its power in their society. The mystique of the Overseer descended in part upon his daughter. The position of supreme power over the lives of everyone in the Vault would be Amata's to command.

How far would the Overseer's daughter have gone to taste that heady wine of god-like authority? After killing Mack in cold blood, she had handed her weapon to the one person with the motivation and the will to end her father's life. The woman who would be queen must not be stained with the sin of patricide. Far better to allow the blame to fall upon an exile despised and unlikely to return.

And had her desire for power already led her into a far worse crime? Of a man, not innocent, yet not deserving of death. A man who stood in the way of her ambitions. A man who had tried to write the name of his killer in his own blood, dying before he could finish even the first letter. The letter 'A'.

'A' for Alphonse? Or 'A' for Amata?

_Should I have pledged myself to her heart and soul? How much has she manipulated me, manipulated all of us? Did she want me to be her Angel of Death? _

_Yet when I think that I might never see her again …_

Amata operated the controls and looked up one last time. Arta could see the oval of her face caught in a flash of the revolving lights, as though frozen in time like a photograph. Then with a grinding of gears, the huge circular door rolled back into place, sealing Vault 101 like a tomb. The passage darkened, and Arta could not help shivering. She was exiled from everything she had known, with little hope of returning. Whatever she found outside, however dreadful or terrifying, it was the Wasteland she must now make her home.

But the fear was momentary, and was swallowed up by the excitement of escape. No matter what she had to face, it could not be worse than the living death of burial underground, and she turned away without regret.

To find that the darkness was by no means absolute. From the other end of the passageway there came a golden light!

Screwing up her eyes, Arta stumbled forward. The uneven surface beneath her feet was something she had never encountered, and she made her way with many a trip. She began to tread on brittle material, which snapped with a cracking sound, and realised with a shudder that she was stepping on dry human bones. But her eyes were fixed only on the source of that glorious radiance.

The tunnel ended in a slatted, wooden doorway, light streaming through the gaps. Arta shut her eyes against the glare, and took a long breath. This was it. Her whole life had been leading up to this moment.

She pushed open the door, and stepped through into a new world.

* * *

Brightness upon brightness. A hot, dry heat. The taste of dust. The air in her lungs had a strange, invigorating quality, bringing with it so many unidentifiable smells that it left her gasping.

She tried again, cautiously, to open her eyes. Her facemask seemed to have a tint which was beginning to compensate for the dazzling light. And all around her she was aware of blurred images.

Nearby rocks came into focus first. Everything else was at a distance beyond her experience. She staggered and put out a hand to steady herself. She squinted … and suddenly things began to become clearer.

She was standing in a narrow gap between overhanging rocks, beyond which a path led downwards towards … towards.

Her head swam. The heights and the depths … the heights …

Overhead huge masses of clouds like cotton wool drifted silently, so high that her mind could scarcely comprehend the distance. And beyond that … beyond that …

A pale blue that she could not have imagined, stretching over everything, seemingly without limit, so that she could not see the end of it, except where the ground intervened, and above that the blue merged into orange and then into pink. And the colours …

The clouds shot through with pink and gold, the depthless blue of the sky, the many shades of the surrounding rocks. And beyond that … beyond that …

Beyond that it seemed as though the whole world was laid out in front of her; like tiny models of objects she could scarcely put a name to; and there were towers and arches and bridges and spires and domes, and so many more things that she could not take them in.

And the shapes and the colours and the distances …

Arta took several giddy steps forward, almost falling. The change in perspective was almost too much. Bland, grey walls had been the boundary of her life before. Now the Vault seemed the size of the box in which she used to keep her toys, and herself a child again, gazing in wonder at a world she was experiencing for the first time.

She felt on her neck a strange radiant warmth, and turned, having to shield her eyes again.

It was there, the source of the light and the colours and the heat. When the filter had adjusted again, she was able to look sidelong to see it: the upper half of a great burning ball of fire, sinking in red gold splendour below the ridge of hills. She knew its name, designation and composition, its period of rotation, facts which meant little now. For her, the sun was the god of this world, the origin of all life, her saviour from the suffocating darkness of the abyss.

Arta fell to her knees, tears pouring from her eyes. The clouds, and the sky and the sun, these should have been her inheritance, the birth right of every human, every creature. But as one of the last remnant of humanity driven by its own folly to seek refuge beneath the ground, she had been locked away from the sun's light and warmth. She wept for joy at her release, but also with regret that the sentence of imprisonment had been so long.

As she raised her hands to the heavens in thanksgiving, she heard herself utter over and over again a vow that was also a prayer,

"_I will never go back, I will never go back, I will never go back_."

She had come out of darkness into the light; this day she was born anew.

* * *

_*_Phew! Finally out of the Vault! Next chapter Arta encounters some of the harsh realities of the Wasteland. Stay tuned!*


	7. First Steps

Ch 7 First Steps

It was a fallen world.

As Arta descended the pathway, her feet kicking up small clouds of dust, she could see that everything was in ruin. The buildings were roofless shells, the inner parts exposed through walls half destroyed or missing altogether. The great bridges she had marvelled at were broken, with huge jagged gaps between each fragmentary section. Reaching the bottom of the slope, she encountered a sunken and pitted highway, strewn with the wrecks of vehicles she'd previously seen only in visi-slides of the past: atom-powered automobiles and air-cars finned like rockets. Rubbish was everywhere; wire trolleys, tin cans, bottles, rubber tyres, and many other less identifiable objects.

Where were the trees, green grass and flowers of her dreams? She could see only withered stumps, broken concrete, rock and wind-blown sand. East and west, north and south, not a single living thing or creature was visible.

Her mood, initially one of rejoicing at her freedom and in the newness of everything, became a little more sombre. The bombs had done this; humanity in its madness had wrought this great destruction upon itself. A shiver passed through her as for a moment she contemplated whether the Overseer's files had contained more lies, and she alone remained alive here out of the whole human race.

She tried to dismiss the irrational thought, examining her pipboy map, which clearly showed the location of the Megaton settlement within a mile to the southeast, the data having been downloaded from the hacked computer. She had no reason to believe it wasn't genuine; there had even been a picture of the town entrance.

Something glittered nearby. She hastened towards a pool of murky looking water larger than she had ever seen. Staring fascinated at the way her reflection and that of the sky above shimmered on its surface, she reached out tentatively to touch it.

Instantly the Geiger counter on her pipboy crackled: the water was irradiated! She snatched back her hand, and remembered the survey team had warned about this. It was as well that she'd brought several bottles of purified water. Taking one of them out, she drunk thirstily, washing the taste of dust from her mouth. No doubt she would be able to supplement her supplies at the town fairly soon.

While she was debating within herself whether to continue in that direction, a strange sound caught her attention. Above the unfamiliar noise of the wind, she could hear distant music. It seemed to be coming from the nearby ruined buildings. Excited she set off towards the source of the sound. The sooner she could make contact with people, the better. _Unless they aren't particularly friendly_, an inner voice warned her. _You'd better approach cautiously._

The music grew louder and louder, a marching tune with drums and fife that seemed designed to stir the emotions. Arta realised, too late, that it was moving _towards _her. She was caught entirely off guard as a small sphere hove into view, hovering several feet off the ground. About the size of a medicine ball, it was fronted by a metallic grill resembling a ventilation duct, and had many backward facing antennae like wiry whiskers. Maneuvering with the agility of a bumblebee, it turned this way and that as if examining its surroundings, giving Arta the uncanny impression that it was a floating metal eyeball.

She let out the breath she'd been holding in. It was a bot, of course. Bots were designed to assist humans not harm them. True there were tales of bots going berserk. After the unfortunate and fatal incident in which Andy had cut off the arm of an apprentice technician, some Vault citizens had wanted him reduced to scrap metal. But pleas from Stanley that it had been down to 'human error', as well as the impossibility of finding a replacement, had saved the crustily eccentric Mr Handy from the incinerator. No further accidents had occurred to her knowledge, though she'd often worked alongside him in her job as junior maintenance assistant. Unless you counted the time when he'd tried cutting her birthday cake; it was lucky she'd been standing well back after blowing out the candles or she'd have got a face full of icing.

Nevertheless she kept her hand close to the holster of her Beretta. The floating bot seemed to have a stubby metal rod on its front, which might be some kind of weapon. When it did nothing but hover and belt out its martial music, she felt reassured enough to attempt a closer examination, and jumped as the music ceased, and the bot spoke.

It said, "I'm John Henry Eden, your president, and its time we had a talk."

The accent was somewhat strange to her ear, but was undoubtedly American. Andy had always spoken in a distinctly different way to everyone else, an archaic form of English which no one else in the Vault used anymore. More puzzling was the bot's claim to some sort of rank or office.

Gulping, she replied, "Nice to meet you, Mr, err … President!"

Apparently ignoring her greeting, the bot continued, "There are those amongst us who would shatter our hopes and dreams."

"There are?" Arta was thrown by the rather odd opening remark.

"These radical malcontents don't care about us. They don't care about _America!" _the bot thundered, making Arta jump again. Andy never got excited like this. "Let's take a tally of these agitators, shall we?"

As the bot continued to speak, Arta became more and more confused. The list of "agitators" it had referred to turned out to be quite a long one. She found it difficult to keep up. "Raiders" "The Brotherhood of Steel" and "Outcasts" were mentioned, and then more disturbingly "Slavers" "frighteningly irradiated Ghouls" and "hideously mutated Super mutants." Why was it telling her all this? As a warning? Or was it about to identify her as a member of one of these factions and attack?

"Lawlessness, terror, murder. They're all around us, I know, I know. But, not for long, sweet America, not for long!"

It suddenly dawned on Arta that the bot wasn't speaking directly to her. It was simply broadcasting its message to anyone who happened to be in hearing range.

Winding up its speech impressively, the bot concluded, "The Enclave will restore peace, order and prosperity. And those who oppose us will be removed … forever. And now, sweet America, we must part. This is John Henry Eden, signing off."

The bot began to play music again, this time a much slower paced, heart stirringly beautiful tune which made Arta feel, after the emotional highs and lows she'd recently undergone, like bursting into tears. Instead she tried to make sense of the message. In all likelihood it was being broadcast (or had been recorded) elsewhere. Presumably by President Eden, who must be the leader of the Enclave, whatever that was. But why? If the Enclave was so certain of victory and the rightness of its cause, why bother to tell anyone? Arta thought of the various kinds of propaganda fed to the citizens of the Vault, praising the Overseer and the virtues of obedience and hard work. Perhaps the outside world wasn't so different after all.

More ominously, the President had raised the possibility of many dangerous threats in the Wasteland. Assuming that he could be believed, she would need to be careful. She ought to be making for Megaton soon.

Arta glanced towards the high cliffs from whence she had come. The sun was setting behind them, something she'd known would happen, infusing the whole landscape with a rich golden glow. Even amongst the devastation, the effect was so beautiful it made her heart ache. She felt sadness at this downfallen world, which still retained a strange grandeur, so that she moved through its vast ruins like a tiny awestruck child, marvelling at the legacy of her ancestors.

Following the bot had drawn her further into the ruined settlement. Her pipboy, utilizing the 'deleted' files which Jonas had tried to keep from her, identified this place as _Springvale_. Despite her apprehensions, it was hard not to look around in fascination at the detritus of a lost civilisation. An impressive sign like a red rocket marked a station which seemed to have been for the repair and refuel of vehicles, and there was a children's playground with swings and a roundabout, all broken and useless. Still she felt she could almost hear ghostly high-pitched laughter on the dusty wind, or the hum of atom-fuelled engines. Kneeling, she found a battered teddy bear, and hugged it to herself. Nearby was a stylish looking red and white dispenser labelled, 'Ice cold Nuka-cola.' After a little experimentation, she got it to drop a bottle of dark liquid into the tray at the bottom. Not only was it nothing like ice cold to the touch, her pipboy indicated it was mildly irradiated, and she slung it away in disgust.

The reminder that radiation had once been present here was unsettling, and she decided to move on. Passing the bot again, she heard President Eden talking about his "dear old dog, Honey" but by now she'd lost interest. Towards the other end of the settlement, she could see a building larger than the others. A prominent sign bore the legend, _Springvale Elementary School_.

Drawn by curiosity, Arta set off in its direction. A school might contain interesting books about the past. As she drew nearer she could see the upper stories were crumbling and roofless, but at ground level the walls and doors were still intact. Outside she paused irresolutely. Should she venture inside? She had actually put a hand on the double doors, when she noticed something lying on the ground, a school bag or satchel.

She bent down to inspect it. The leather was scorched as though by great heat, and the bag's zipper was fused shut. Using a jagged piece of metal from nearby she was able to slice it open. Amongst the intact contents were lead pencils, a protractor and a lunch box, and several books charred almost beyond recognition.

She was about to discard it as uninteresting, then saw that one of the books was bound in leather, and in a somewhat better state. She leafed through, hoping to find anything readable, without result, until she reached the very middle page, where something was written in unusual but distinct gold lettering. She read:

_Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley._

Arta glanced around her nervously. There was an air of menace about the silently frowning walls, giving her the uneasy feeling that someone might be watching. But the urge to continue reading was too strong.

_I met a traveller from an antique land_

_Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone_

_Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,_

_Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown_

_And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command_

_Tell that its sculptor well those passions read_

_Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,_

_The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed._

_And on the pedestal these words appear:_

"_My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,_

_Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"_

To Arta's intense frustration, the last few lines were indecipherable. She puzzled over them for a while, and tried to consider what the remainder of the poem meant. It was far better than anything Beatrice had ever produced, although like most of hers, it seemed to produce a feeling of gloom.

She looked up suddenly, realising that she'd been totally absorbed with the book for some time. The sun had by now completely sunk below the hills, the light had faded and twilight, the real twilight of fallen Earth, was well on the way. She'd been looking forward to night time and the opportunity to see the moon and stars. However the lengthening shadows gave rise to a feeling of apprehension in the primitive part of her mind. Evil things, such as those Eden had spoken of, could be lurking in dark corners, ready to spring out at her.

Carefully she removed the page from the book, and tucked it within her jacket pocket. Perhaps one day she would find out what the missing lines were. She was about to turn away from the school, when some instinct made her look upwards towards the blank, ragged gaps that were all that remained of the building's first floor windows.

Leaning out of one of the dark orifices, head projecting forwards and arms resting on the rough stone, there stood a man.

He seemed to be gazing straight ahead of him but, as Arta watched, he tilted his head upwards like someone stretching to relax his neck muscles. His head was bare, as was his left shoulder but his blonde hair was spiked up to form a great crest, which fanned from the front of his scalp all the way down to the nape of his neck. The right shoulder was covered by what looked like leather padding; perhaps some form of armour. She could not discern details of his features in the failing light, except that he was bearded and somewhat swarthy.

It seemed only a matter of time before he looked in her direction, and Arta reacted instinctively by moving backwards out of his line of sight, intending to flatten herself against the wall. Before she was aware of it, she was leaning against a door, which unexpectedly gave, sending her tumbling into the building.

She found herself sprawled on a hard stone surface. The light was dim, and she could hear nothing except a steady drip, drip, drip, as of water falling from the ceiling. Getting to her feet, she turned to see what was behind her.

A few feet away was a large steel cage, and her attention was drawn to the sound of fluid dripping onto and through its bars. She switched on her pip boy light to get a better look.

It wasn't water. It was blood.

As her frightened eyes took in the sights revealed, she desperately willed herself to believe that she was in the midst of a nightmare, except that not in her wildest, darkest dreams could she have imagined anything so gruesomely horrifying. The room she had entered was high ceilinged and surrounded by an upper gallery, strip lighting casting alternate light and shadow on its chipped grey walls. And it was full of bloodied and mutilated corpses.

They were everywhere, still in rags of clothing, either nailed spread-eagled and headless to the blood spattered walls, or hanging from the ceiling by chains attached to meat hooks, creating the dripping of gore she had heard. To the right was a low pallet, upon which severed limbs and internal organs were arranged as though on some grotesque butcher's slab. The cage itself was scattered with a variety of human bones. The stench that assailed her nostrils was indescribably vile.

Arta crouched down, her mind reeling and in such shock that she could not even gain relief by vomiting. A whimpering sound came from her throat. She drew her arms close in to her body, then buried her head in her hands, from which she peeped like a small child, hoping in vain for the terrifying sights to go away.

_They're there as … as DECORATION._

_I've got to … I must get out of here!_

As the horror-filled seconds passed one after another, Arta struggled to overcome the paralysis that fear and disgust had thrown over her limbs. Once she was able to regain her feet, her immediate instinct was to run shrieking from the building, but the rational part of her mind told her that this would be folly.

_Take shallow breaths, don't look directly at anything, walk slowly towards the exit. Come on, Arta, you can do this. Just pretend it's a simulation._

Her nerves screaming, the horrid fetid smell a constant reminder of the charnel house, she turned and walked towards the door on feet that wanted to run.

Behind her there was the clatter as of something being kicked accidentally, and a muffled curse. To face about again was the bravest thing she had ever done. At the same time her hand felt for her holstered 10mm pistol, as a child reaches for its comforter.

The pipboy light showed every detail of the woman standing less than five yards away. She was about the same age as Arta, but had a thin, wasted look, and her skin was deeply ingrained with grime. Like the man in the window, her jet black hair was arranged in stylised spikes, although these formed two fans on either side of her head, almost like the wings of a butterfly. She was dressed in a tightly laced brown leather bodice, leaving her neck and shoulders elegantly bare except for a single epaulette. Long leather gloves extended so far past her elbows as to be like separate sleeves. Her lower body was protected by pieces of spiked leather sewn over pants, and she wore knee high boots fitted with metal greaves. Spiral tattoos on her arms and the exposed part of her breasts looked like tribal markings.

Her belt balanced a sheathed dagger with a row of severed human hands.

Despite her somewhat gaunt appearance, there was a fierce pride in her bright green eyes, and an arrogance to her bearing and carriage that seemed to give her the beauty and magnificent savagery of a warrior queen from the pages of Grognak the Barbarian, issue fourteen of which Amata had given Arta as a tenth birthday present.

The woman gave a gleeful whoop, and bared her teeth in a demented grin. Her voice was high pitched and manic.

"Looks like some fresh meat's stepped through the door. Come here, meat!"

So saying she drew the long bladed knife from the scabbard at her waist, and charged with a blood-curdling yell.

For an instant the terrifying spectacle froze Arta's muscles, then survival instinct combined with repetitive practice took over. She drew the Beretta with one hand, flicked off the safety and steadied the weapon with the other, took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The woman was almost upon her. The first round struck her right arm, which was drawn back to make an upward thrust, bringing a welling of blood from around the shoulder guard. The second missed altogether as she twisted sideways, kicking high with her left leg to knock the gun from Arta's grasp. At the same time she dropped the knife, and clutched at her wounded shoulder.

"You little cunt, you shot me! For that I'm going to nail your hide to my wall!"

She reached out to grab for Arta's neck with her good arm. Adrenaline surging through her body, Arta fended off the attack with her stronger right hand, then swung a wild left hook at the woman's undefended chin, which rather fortunately connected, snapping back her head and causing her to stagger.

Backing off, she shouted, "Boys, help me out here!"

Her fist stinging, Arta stooped to scrabble desperately for her dropped weapon, eventually clutching it with palms slick with sweat, her heart hammering. No longer thinking of fighting, she bolted for the double doors. Even as she did so, there was an echoing report nearby, and a bullet whined over her shoulder to ricochet off the wall.

Thrusting the doors aside, Arta regained the open air, hyperventilating lungs sucking in its freshness. Without a pause for thought, she fled as fast as she could back along the cracked and broken main road, her feet finding their way uncertainly in the gathering darkness.

Two more shots rang out, knotting her stomach in panic, and making her sprint even faster, despite the risk of falling. Taking a wild glance over her shoulder, she was horrified to see that the woman was merely a dozen paces behind her, running quickly and strongly despite her wound, holding the dagger in her left hand. Further back a dark figure was standing in the posture of aiming a handgun.

She heard her nearest pursuer call out, "Watch where you're firing, you dung rat!" Then again, taunting her, "Yeah, go on, run, just like a little bitch!"

Arta continued to run, without any plan except to keep to the road and hope that she could outdistance her pursuers or that they would give up. Her breaths came in fearful pants, the adrenalin racing through her veins.

Again the taunt, "How much further can you run, meat sack? You'll be on that wall soon."

_Further and faster than you with that wound!_ _I'm not going to gasp my life out and end up as your trophy. Not here, not now. I won't fucking die!_ As this defiant mood overtook her, she rounded the corner of a derelict building, and heard once more the sound of approaching music.

The bot swooped forward. From its speakers thundered the _Battle Hymn of the Republic_, but few now remembered the words to the tune played with such patriotic fervour.

_Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,_

_He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,_

_He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:_

_His truth is marching on._

_Glory, glory, hallelujah!_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah!_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah!_

_His truth is marching on._

Of these verses and their possible appropriateness, Arta was entirely ignorant as, in all probability, were her pursuers. She was aware only that the darkness was suddenly penetrated by a pencil thin red beam, as the bot unleashed the 'fateful lightning' of its front mounted laser weapon upon its adversaries.

Arta continued running, and finally paused to look back, gasping, her eyes widening at the spectacle. The woman was crouched down under the fury of the bot's attack, screaming and cursing, trying futilely to protect herself against the red ruin which struck again and again to scorch leather and flesh. Her ally had stopped to take frantic pot shots at the hovering menace, which dodged and darted and blasted another pulse of laser fire, all the time pounding out its triumphant melody.

_I wonder where they figure on its list of enemies, _Arta wondered.

Not wanting to await the result of the battle, she decided to seek concealment amongst the ruined buildings, hoping thus to escape regardless of which side won. As she left the road, moving cautiously over the debris, the night breeze swirled around her, cooling the perspiration sheening her skin. Her pulse and respiration began to return to normal, and once she'd put several buildings between her and the firefight, she felt a little better.

Looking up into the blackness of the heavens, she noticed for the first time many pinpricks of light like tiny fires. In spite of the continuing possibility of danger, it was difficult not to stare in awe at the countless jewels of the night, and then at the pearl whiteness of the rising moon, its flat disk showing what seemed to her a mocking face. Coming back down to earth, she realised the difficulty of her situation. She needed to reach Megaton for shelter, but blundering about in the darkness could be dangerous, especially if her attackers had survived their encounter with the bot.

And then, like a beacon of hope, a soft yellow light shone out amidst the gloom.

* * *

Arta squatted nervously in front of the small shack. There had been something reassuringly cosy and heart warming about the light she had briefly witnessed shining through its windows; perhaps not the sort of illumination someone of psychopathic tendencies might favour. But how was she to know? This world and its ways were unknown to her. Listening carefully, she caught the faint sound of someone speaking.

"When I was a child, growing up in rural Kentucky, I had the best friend a boy could hope for: my dear old dog, Honey. Oh ho ho, the adventures we had! From Knobcreek to Hagenville we roamed, carefree and courageous, irresponsible and completely inseparable."

President Eden's transmission! In some way or other, perhaps via the radio, it was being replayed in this homestead. Arta considered. Would the "agitators" the President had referred to listen, _of their own volition, _to a broadcast in which they appeared as the villains? Possibly not, although she knew so little about them, it was hard to tell. _Ghouls? Super mutants?_ She could only guess how such creatures might think, if they thought at all.

Considering her recent experiences, it would be wise to be cautious. She drew her out her pistol and readied it to fire. Then she tried the door handle. It was unlocked. She pushed it open, wincing as it gave a loud creak, and crept inside.

Although in a state of general dilapidation, there were at least some things about the room which recalled the pre-war style of living she had learned about in the Vault. An old-fashioned electric clock was on the wall, its hands forever frozen at the time of catastrophe. It appeared that the walls had been papered in a leaf design, but this was almost obliterated by horrible brown stains, and the glass frame of a painting was shattered and empty. The most obvious sign of present occupation was the enticing smell of food coming from a pot boiling on the stove, and the careful arrangement of cutlery, plates and a coffee pot at a small table. The shelves held what seemed like complete junk, though Arta with her knowledge of maintenance could guess at many practical uses for it. The room was lit by the comforting electric light she had observed through the window, now screened by a filthy, ragged curtain.

Footsteps sounded across the wooden floorboards from the direction of the doorway set in the partitioning wall. Arta took a deep breath. Hiding in such a small room was impossible, a confrontation with the occupant inevitable. She held the Beretta ready but not levelled.

A woman appeared in the doorway. Arta was immediately relieved to note she bore little resemblance to the other Wasteland denizens she had encountered. Her face was comparatively clean, with some minimal use of make up, and her long blonde hair was parted and brushed back to one side to fall in a series of waves, a style Arta had once seen in a pre-war movie. Her clothes showed signs of much wear and careful patching, but were simple rather than threatening in design: a light brown hooded top and white slacks.

The woman stared at her in mingled fear and incomprehension, before drawling, "Who the hell are you? Did Moriarty send you?"

Her voice was somewhat rough, the tone aggressive bordering on hostile. Arta reminded herself that she was holding a drawn weapon. And the woman seemed to be dreading exactly this sort of visitation.

She spoke reassuringly. "I'm Arta. Nobody sent me. I don't even know who Moriarty is."

"You don't know? Where you been hiding out then? Moriarty's Saloon's famous across the Wasteland. He's the owner." The woman's blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You want caps? Don't tell anyone I'm here and I can give you plenty."

_What's she offering me? _Carefully Arta said, "I won't tell. But I want somewhere safe to stay for the night, and some food, if you can spare it." _And I sure hope she can! _The smell of cooking was making her stomach growl.

The woman still appeared sceptical. "That's all? Most people want caps, even the damn priests. You ain't aiming to sell me out to Moriarty once you've left? I guarantee I'll pay you more than that stingy bastard. I stole plenty of his caps before I escaped."

Arta racked her brains. Before the war people had exchanged money for goods and other useful things. She'd even found some pre-war notes near the Overseer's office. Perhaps these _caps_ were some kind of currency. In that case, it would be best to accept them, especially if the woman was more likely to trust her.

"Is that why Moriarty's looking for you?"

"That pig! He says I owe him money, that I'm a junky. The truth is I couldn't stand working for the slave driver any longer. He treated me like shit, used and abused me when he felt like it. So I grabbed as many caps as I could lay hold of, and bolted."

Arta tried to sound as sympathetic as possible. "He sounds like a real arsehole. I promise I won't betray you, if you give me food, shelter and … some caps."

The woman seemed to relax a little. "Okay, I guess I havta trust you. You can stay the night and share my food. Plus … " she eyed Arta appraisingly "How's one hundred caps sound?"

_She's prepared to give me more if I ask! _Firmly Arta said, "Two hundred."

"Hard bargainer after all, eh?" But Arta could tell the woman was more relieved than anything. "Well, I said I'd make it worth your while. It's a deal." She produced a grubby bag. "Here count 'em out yourself, and I'll finish cooking dinner. Oh, my name's Silver, by the way. Ain't nobody ever called me anything else."

"Nice to meet, you, Silver. My real name's Artemesia, but usually only my dad calls me that. And … older people. You can call me Arta."

"Oh, nice to know I'm not one of the 'older people'." She chuckled, "Still you could almost be my daughter."

Arta sat down at the table, suddenly feeling weak with hunger, as well as exhausted after the taxing events of the day. She put down her Beretta and examined the bag to find … bottle caps. _I wish I had some idea what I could buy with them._

"So Arta…" Silver stirred the pot with a metal spoon, tipped in a generous amount of wine from a bottle, then splashed some into two glasses she'd set down on the table. "What shall we drink to?"

Arta looked nervously at the dark red liquid before her, smelt its bouquet in an unconscious echo of the past. She'd never drunk wine before. Waving her glass in the general direction of the radio, she suggested:

"To President Eden, and the Enclave?"

"Ha! You could've come up with a worse toast." She clinked glasses with Arta, and snorted. "Better than that arse wipe Three Dog. '_The Good Fight._' Whatta load of hog wash!"

Arta gulped her wine, grimaced and coughed at the unusual taste. She would've liked to ask who Three Dog was, but didn't want to reveal how little she knew yet.

Cautiously she asked, "Do you think the Enclave will really help us?"

"Hmmm, well! True, their record ain't great so far. 'Cept for those bots, I ain't seen a single Enclave soldier in all my time. Still at least they _say_ they're fighting for the American way of life. As for that other bunch of boy scouts…" she made a contemptuous gesture "…we don't even know what the hell they want with us."

Arta decided to risk putting her new knowledge to the test. "The Brotherhood of Steel?" she ventured.

"Yeah. Arrogant tossers! Leastways if those Outcasts are anything to go by. I'm not mad enough to go anywhere near the central DC ruins to find out if the original lot are any better. My guess is they've got their own reasons for tryin' to clean out the muties and ghouls. And it ain't for no 'good fight'. You'da thought that ghoul-lovin' pinko Three Dog would've figured that one out."

Arta was still absorbing this surprising information as Silver served up dinner, dividing the noodles and vegetable pieces into two bowls. Arta's mouth watered. Even if the vegetables weren't fresh, as she'd hoped, this was much better fare than she was used to. She reached enthusiastically for her bowl.

To her horror, the pipboy counter crackled its alarm.

Unconcerned Silver commented, "That's a fancy looking piece of tech you got there. You watchin' your weight or your rad count or somethin'?"

Arta's stomach revolted, as her feelings of disgust and acute hunger conflicted. She pushed the bowl away. "Actually I'm not all that hungry."

"Jesus! What the fuck! Seemed to me like you preferred food to caps not so long ago. Now you look green to the gills. What gives?"

"I … I …" Arta tried to pull herself together. She was so hungry. _But it's ... it's radiation! It'll kill me or make me grow an extra arm or give birth to two-headed babies!_

Silver ate from her own bowl, then swapped it with Arta's. "Here. It's good food. I ain't tryin' to poison you."

Arta stared at the noodles. They smelt so wonderful. And if she didn't eat Silver would suspect … but she couldn't … she just couldn't.

She said, "It's … it's irradiated."

Silver shovelled some noodles into her mouth. "Yeah, and …?"

"I … I can't …" Tears started in Arta's eyes.

"Hey, what's up?" Silver's tone became gentler. "Look, I'd give you something else if there was anything else. But you know as well as I do, there ain't. Couple more on your count ain't gonna do nuthin'. From your colour, I'd say you gotta long way to go before you need to take any Radaway."

"B, but …" Sobs rose in her throat.

"Shit, you're real upset." Silver looked at Arta closely. Her gaze went to her pip boy, then back to her face. She screwed up her eyes. "Yeah, you look real healthy. In the pink. Skin, so clear and clean. Like you never …" Her voice trailed off. Suddenly she reached forward and pulled down the zip on Arta's leather jacket, revealing the jumpsuit underneath.

"Jesus fucking Christ! You're one of those Vaultees!"

Arta nodded speechlessly, tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Aw, c'mere. Come to momma."

And at last there was a soft bosom on which to rest her head.

* * *

"You look bushed, kid." Silver glanced across to where Arta was slumped in her chair. "Why don't you put your head down for a couple of hours at least? You can use my bed; I don't usually get to sleep till well after midnight."

Arta tried to suppress a yawn. She shouldn't sleep yet; she wanted to carry on talking with Silver. Not only because there were many things she wanted to learn from her about the Wasteland. She wanted to know more about Silver herself. She seemed kind, but could she trust her?

So far the conversation hadn't got very far. Much of it dwelt on Silver's experiences in Megaton, and her grievances. Colin Moriarty was "an evil bastard", Nova, her co-worker, a "bitch to me", the customers "mostly lousy buggers like Jericho". The only person she had a good word for was someone called Leo Stahl: "a friend in need." Arta was beginning to wonder whether going to Megaton was such a good idea

Silver hadn't talked about her work in detail, except that it was "serving drinks and, you know, entertaining customers." Before Arta had any chance to get her onto useful topics, Silver had cross-questioned her on life in the Vault, which she seemed extremely interested in. This put Arta to some trouble, as she had no desire to discourse about her past life, still less give Silver any important information, such as how and why she left. Nevertheless even her most vague or inaccurate statements about the Vault caused a dreamy almost hungry look to enter the ranch owner's pale blue eyes. This made Arta uncomfortable, and more inclined to remain close-mouthed.

To get her off the subject, she was beginning to tell Silver about the attack at the school. "I hit her with a 10 mm bullet at close range, but she just kept coming, like she hardly felt any pain."

"Yeah, probably jacked up on psycho, buffout and med-x. They say if you take enough combat drugs, you can walk on bloody stumps or with a missing arm. 'Course I wouldn't know if that's tall tales, I'm a non-combatant." She grinned.

Then another interruption occurred while Silver tried to coax her into eating the irradiated noodles. Her method, aside from patiently giving reassurance that "a few rads never hurt anyone", was to first make Arta drunk on a combination of wine, beer and whisky. This inevitably led to her throwing up into a bucket. But eventually she'd been able to keep something down.

Now with her stomach finally quietening down, and her mind dazed with alcohol, she was finding it almost impossible to keep awake. _I suppose a little sleep will do me good. Else I'll be spouting nonsense and won't remember anything I hear. _Nevertheless despite her befuddled state, she was careful, without drawing Silver's attention, to keep her Beretta with her.

The bed Silver showed her in the next room smelt unpleasant, but Arta scarcely cared. She took off her jacket to use as a blanket, put her head on the pillow, and the gun under it.

Silver smiled down at her. "Sweet dreams," she said, and put out the light.

* * *

Arta was dreaming of her mother. She always imagined her with very long, jet-black hair, pale skin like her own and kind blue eyes like her father's. She could only imagine because her father had destroyed every picture of his wife he'd possessed. It was a strange thing to do, and when she'd asked him about it, he'd become defensive and evasive, exactly as he always did when she put certain questions to him. She'd learned instead to ask him to describe what her mother was like, which he was happy to do. But still, it was odd.

Dreams about her mother had previously been in the Vault, or in Arta's imaginary outside world. Sometimes her father was in them, occasionally Amata also figured. Not that they were ever _those _kind of dreams, naturally.

For the first time the dream was in the Wastes. She stood with her mother on a high cliff, overlooking the devastated lands. They were talking quietly but Arta couldn't remember what the subject was, or how they began it. Rather than listen attentively, she watched her mother as she spoke. She was so beautiful, her red lips moving graciously and Arta wanted to hug her.

Then her mother made a gesture encompassing the Wasteland. She said clearly, '_It will bloom again_.'

And then from nowhere they appeared, the savage woman and Officer Mack. Mack looked exactly like he had when Amata killed him, with head shattered and brains spilling out. The woman's right arm was alike useless, except that _another_, covered in yellow scales, was growing out from the same shoulder, and she wore the same insane grin.

The two seized hold of her mother, who began to struggle. Arta tried to move forward to help, but her legs were glued fast to the spot on which she stood. She could only watch as the inevitable happened, and her mother screamed and fell …

She awoke suddenly. She sensed not much time had passed since she'd fallen asleep, and her head hurt unbearably. Something cold and metallic and round was pressed against it.

Arta opened her eyes, to look straight into the pale blue ones behind the gun muzzle. A voice echoed harshly in her head, pitiless as steel Vault walls.

"Don't you twitch a muscle. Unless you want twitching to be the last thing that you do."

* * *

*This _is _a mega-long chapter, but maybe you all deserve it after a double-long wait. I preferred in the end not to split it, as this seemed a better way to end the episode; from a cliff-hanging viewpoint anyway, heh, heh!

The bot's second tune is of course _America the Beautiful. _It always makes me want to cry, and I'm English. Really!

I'd like to publicly thank everyone for his or her reviews so far, which have been illuminating, helpful, inspiring and encouraging. I think I've actually responded to most people's reviews individually, but this is for anyone I missed, plus to show that I _do _really value everyone's opinions, even if critical.

I've had some discussions with other fanfic authors about Wiki Fallout information, and have come to my own conclusion that its not to be 100% relied on (like other Wikipedia stuff or the Internet generally). Character ages are one issue: I don't buy all the D.O.B.s. Jonas Wiki date looks way too early. I figured he was older, but not _that _much older than Arta/Amata (say 10-15 years). And with respect to this chapter, the opposite appears true of Silver. IMHO, her voice puts her closer to thirty something than her early twenties (Wiki birth date: 2055, I don't think so!) So her claim that Arta could be her daughter, while a bit exaggerated, isn't completely ridiculous.

Well you got double-sized A/N too. Hopefully next chapter things will be back to normal with respect to size/update times.*


	8. Pieces of Silver

Ch 8 Pieces of Silver

Arta remained very still. She could sense her pistol lying under the pillow, but dared not try to reach for it.

"Listen very carefully. You'll do what I say and only what I say. Make any other kind of movement, and you'll be in the next world before you know it. This ain't a fancy gun like yours, but it'll blow your brains out just the same. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Now put your hands on your head and keep them there. You know what happens if you don't."

Arta complied, having to wriggle a little. Her interlocked hands were tantalisingly the pillow's width from her Beretta.

"Sit up."

This required a little more effort with her hands on her head, but was easily achievable.

"Get to your feet – but _very slowly_. And don't move those hands."

Arta stood. Her breaths came fast, and her inner voices were screaming. _You stupid bitch! How could you trust her! Did you buy all that 'momma' stuff? She's not your fucking mother! _Silver was behind her, and she could feel the gun muzzle touching the nape of her neck, angled upwards, cold shivers radiating from it and running down her spine.

"Again very slowly, put your hands down to touch your belly. Then take your jumpsuit off. _I said slowly!_"

Sweat was freely running down Arta's brow. Carefully she unzipped her jumpsuit and stepped out of it. The gun was all the time pressed against her tingling skin.

"Now the rest of your clothes."

"What?"

"_Take them off_! _All of them._ _Do it!"_

Openly shaking now, Arta removed her underwear. Being naked made her feel completely vulnerable, like a newborn babe.

"Walk over to the chair, and sit down, facing the back."

Arta complied. The position she was forced to sit down in, spreading her legs, was even more unsettling and degrading.

"Clasp your hands behind you."

Arta did so, and immediately felt cold metal clamped around her wrists. She'd been manacled.

From her position, she was able to watch while Silver rifled through her clothing, making occasional outcries of surprise, delight or disappointment. She'd soon made several piles out of Arta's possessions, mostly light stuff like stimpaks, med-x and 10 mm clips, the purified water making up the bulk of it.

Eventually Silver turned back to her captive. "Where's the fucking gun?"

Arta determinedly kept her lips pressed tightly together. The fear she felt at being completely at Silver's mercy was matched by rage at her betrayal, her humiliating imprisonment and the plundering of her equipment. She knew she was helpless, yet could not bring herself to speak to her captor, and even less to give up any advantage she might hold, however slight.

Silver made a sudden movement, cocking her own pistol against Arta's temple. "You've got about five seconds to tell me where it is, or its bye bye to your pretty head. I mean it."

Arta gritted her teeth. Silver obviously didn't want to kill her or she would have done so by now. She would certainly be able to find the gun herself eventually, so it wouldn't make that much difference. Was it worth the risk of antagonising her so that she was prompted to mistreat her, or even changed her mind and decided to shoot her after all?

No it wasn't. Nevertheless she waited three heartbeats before saying tersely, "It's under the pillow."

"Smart girl! Let's hope you continue to stay smart." Silver uncovered the 10 mm, checked it was loaded, then swapped it for her own battered looking weapon. "Very nice indeed! Can't decide whether to keep it or sell it." She grinned. "Because all this, including your own sweet arse, is mine now. Law of the Wasteland."

Arta would've liked to retort, but instead contented herself with looking daggers at her captor, as she drew up a second chair, and sat down facing her. The young woman could tell Silver was in a triumphant mood, absolutely exultant at the power she held. Licking her lips as though relishing the situation, she let her eyes run over her bound prisoner, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

"Hope you ain't too chilly. Still if you'd searched me as thoroughly as I just did you, you probably wouldn't be sitting there now, naked as the day you were born."

Arta continued to glower at her, though privately she was taking in the hard-learned lesson.

Silver went on breezily, "Today's certainly my lucky day, especially if you told me the truth about where you're from. That will add so much to the price I can get."

Arta was too shocked to maintain her silence. "P, price?"

Silver stretched her lips in a broad grin, clearly enjoying her captive's consternation immensely. "Yeah, price. For selling you to the slavers. A piece of prime woman flesh like you could go for a thousand caps at Paradise Falls. More if you're a virgin. And, as for someone from a Vault, that's the kind of virginity you don't see very often. Whichever way you look at it, my percentage of those caps could buy me a new life far away from this shit-hole. You're gonna help make my fortune, kid."

"Please! You can't do that, it's … inhuman!"

"Oh, yes I can. You, know, I'd like to say it's strictly business, that it's nothing personal. But I'd be lying. Just thinking about you suffering in the same way that I had to is gonna make my day, every day. You'll understand when you've heard my story."

"No, I won't. I don't give a damn about your fucking story, you psycho!" Arta realised she was becoming hysterical. She'd better keep her mouth shut before she got herself killed. But … slavery. It was like a nightmare, and she desperately wanted to wake up.

"That's too bad, 'cos you're gonna hear it anyways. It'll give you a flavour of what you'll be in for yourself, once those slavers get their hands on you." Silver leaned back in her chair, folding her arms composedly. "Yeah, you already guessed I used to wear those irons myself**.** I was only fifteen when my step daddy sold me, to keep himself in booze and whores. I pray the bastard died real painfully when his liver gave out. The slavers treated me with more humanity than he did, though they had an interest in keeping me intact and in good health, of course.

Even so, standing there in that cage while some callous fucker looks you over like you're a prize brahmin … well you're gonna find out how shitty that makes you feel." She smoothed back her hair. "I was real pretty then too; I guess at that age you got something about you, no matter how rough you've had it. And I was sold to the meanest, most perverted tosser you could come across. I'll at least spare you the details of what that sicko used to do to me. Enough to say those next three years were the worst of my life. I guess after a while I got numb to it, or I would've probably killed myself. Fortunately he got tired of me, sold me back to Paradise Falls and likely got some other poor girl; I hope she had the guts to cut his balls off.

The next time I got luckier: I was bought by a decent enough guy, who was just a bit lonely. Sure he wasn't the most handsome, and he still expected me to sleep with him, but he treated me pretty well by comparison. I was hoping he would set me free and marry me, but after a few years he met this other gold digger. I could tell how things were gonna go, so I tried poisoning the bitch, but it got discovered. Rather than kill me, they sold me again; the caps they got for my resale set them up as man and wife; you can imagine how that made me feel.

This time I stayed at the Falls a lot longer. The slavers got to know me, and I was allowed a bit of freedom. I became almost a kind of mascot to them, running the bar and so on. Eulogy Jones was the main man then, and he liked me. What happened was I took up with one of his henchman, and he bought and freed me for a small sum.

That was a great time. We went on raids and I used my still considerable charms to lure away men, and sometimes women and kids too. We lived like kings on the fat of the land. Let me give you this advice," Silver wagged a mocking finger in Arta's direction; "Always make the most of the good times, 'cos they ain't gonna last. Too bad that thanks to me you've not got any to look forward to for quite a while.

One day we got ambushed by supermutants south of Arefu; everyone else in the party was killed or captured. I barely made it past the Raiders and wasteland critters, and turned up half-dead in Megaton. Moriarty offered me a job whoring for his customers, and you know the rest."

Stretching herself luxuriously, Silver concluded: "So that's my life story; I don't get to tell it often, but I guess you can't beat a captive audience." She chuckled.

Arta was thinking furiously. Silver's biog undoubtedly had its tragic aspects, but also showed she could be completely ruthless. In any case, she wasn't inclined to feel sympathy for someone who had bushwhacked her and intended to sell her into slavery. _Maybe it'll reveal some way I can get through to her, or at least gain some advantage._

Trying to soften her voice, she said, "I can tell you've had a hard life, and I'm sorry about that, but why inflict the same suffering on someone who was prepared to help you out?"

Silver laughed harshly. "Oh, you're sorry, are you? Well I'm sorry too. Sorry that I never had the chance to live in a Vault, coddled in the lap of luxury like a little princess, instead of being robbed of my best years and my self-respect. Now you can find out what its like on the other side of the tracks, and make me plenty of caps into the bargain. With those I've got already, it'll be enough to set me up as an independent trader, so I'll never have to sell my body again."

_Strike one!_ _I've got to appeal to her self-interest. _Arta said, "It sounds pretty dangerous getting back to … Paradise Falls. How are you going to do it without getting us both killed?"

Silver frowned. "You're a smart one, ain't you? No, it ain't gonna be easy." She got up and paced about. "There are always some traders whose routes go through Megaton and Paradise Falls. If I can get word through them, Eulogy can send a party to pick you up. One of the slavers I knew, Carolina Red, could do it. That bitch is tougher than Yao Guai hide. You'd wet yourself just talking to her. I wish I could've set her on Moriarty, but the bastard has connections everywhere.

Anyway its gonna take time, maybe caps too. So we'll be together a while longer yet." She strolled over to Arta and ruffled her hair. "And I guess we might as well make the most of that, Arta darlin'."

_Strike two! _Arta did her best to flinch away. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you can't be quite so naïve at your age, my dear," Silver cooed. Her hands slid lower onto Arta's bare shoulders. "And even if you are, that makes it more fun for me."

"Please, leave me alone!"

Ignoring her, Silver let a hand trail down Arta's spine, nestling near the clench of her buttocks.

"I wonder … if you're a virgin … and if so, what kind?"

Arta gasped at the probing of Silver's fingers.

Silver giggled, "Well looks like you're _that _sort of virgin at least. Good enough."

Unexpectedly she tilted back Arta's head, and bent over her to press her lips forcefully against the younger woman's. Her breath smelt strongly of whisky; perhaps better than it might otherwise have done. As Silver began to tease at her nipples, Arta realised she had no choice but to submit and hope her chance to escape would come. It was even more galling that, seemingly against her will, her body was starting to respond to the older woman's tantalising touches.

Silver finished pulling off her own clothing.

"Now you're in the perfect position." Taking hold of Arta's head with both hands, she said, "Come to momma."

_Looks like, for now, I've struck out._

_

* * *

_

Arta awoke, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, and with a dry and unpleasant taste in her mouth. She'd been manacled to the stovepipe, which was at least a warm area of the shack. Additionally she'd been allowed to put her Vault suit back on and given her Tunnel Snakes jacket to wrap around her shoulders. These factors, along with sheer fatigue, had allowed her to sleep for a while, despite the awkward position and her desperate thoughts.

She began to ponder further the escape plan she'd been contemplating earlier. Trying to wrench herself free hadn't seemed like a good option. Even if she could have done so without waking Silver, how could she then remove the handcuffs? No, she would have to be subtler than that: the plan must involve Silver releasing her hands. And her story would have to check out completely, or Silver would be suspicious and not go for it. She turned it over in her mind, trying to look for possible flaws. The problem was, regardless of whether Silver took the bait, she would then have to somehow catch her off guard, at the risk of being shot if things went wrong.

_All I need is for her to lose concentration for a moment! I must believe its possible! _She'd noticed several syringes around the shack. Maybe Moriarty had been right about Silver being a junky, in which case the chances were even better. Drugs often dulled people's reflexes, particularly after the 'come down' period. Her father had been aware of several Vault residents who'd become a trifle too fond of his medication and kept pestering him for a fix. Curing the physical addiction often wasn't enough to end the psychological dependency.

Silver stumbled through the partition, half-naked, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "What - you can't sleep? Me neither. I know what I need – Mother's little helper." She walked over to a cupboard, and picked up one of the syringes, then carefully injected it into a vein. "God, that feels good! Wanna try it?"

Arta shrank away. "No thank you."

Silver shrugged. "Whatever. Maybe later then. You ain't gonna survive long in the Wastes without some chemical help." She lay back in the chair, her mouth slightly open, an ecstatic expression on her face.

_Yeah shoot yourself up, you junky! It might be for the last time!_ Arta figured the moment had come. Blissed out in her private heaven, Silver should be more receptive to the lure that Arta was going to dangle in front of her.

It was important that she continued to think of her captive as naïve and trusting. After all, that was pretty much what she'd been so far. Making her voice as weak and pathetic as she could manage, she said, "Please, Silver, you've got to let me go!"

Silver sounded distracted. "Aw, c'mon, Arta, we've been through this already. I ain't gonna. You know, in a way, you should be thankful; you're a lot better off in my hands than if supermutants or Raiders had got you."

"But … but there's other people relying on me."

"What? What are you sayin'? Who, for god's sake?"

"I … I can't tell you!"

Silver jumped out of the chair, grabbed a carving knife from the sideboard. "Oh yes, you can! You most definitely can!" She advanced on Arta. "A few little cuts here and there ain't gonna take much off your price, but'll hurt you real bad. Out with it, right now."

Arta waited until Silver had pressed the knife against her skin, before saying in a panicked tone: "OK, OK! The … the Vault survivors. They need me to get help back to them."

"Survivors? What happened to everyone else?"

"An accident in the Vault's chemical processing plant spread a gas through the ventilation system which killed nearly everyone in their sleep. After it cleared, there were only three survivors apart from myself. Two children, Tom and Mary, and another woman called Amata. We realised there was no way we could maintain all the Vault's systems on our own. So they sent me out to get help, as I was the fittest and knew a little bit about firearms."

"And the Vault, its pretty much intact?" The dreamy look was back in Silver's eyes, her voice hungry, eager. Arta strove to conceal her excitement. _I've got her! Just as I thought. What she wants more than anything else is to get inside a Vault. How ironic, her dream is the reverse of mine!_

"For the moment, yes. We managed to shut down the chemical plant. But without proper repair and maintenance, the whole Vault will gradually deteriorate. We need someone with technical know-how, as well as more people to run it."

"And there's still clean, non-irradiated food and water, and hot showers and fresh laundry and … and _ice cream_?" Silver continued dreamily.

"Yes! And movies, and video games and baseball and … an orgasmatron!" Arta wondered if she'd overdone it slightly. She remembered a sci-fi story with something called that, and it was a little far out. Still how was Silver to know any different?

"Movies … and an orgasmatron," Silver repeated enraptured. There was no doubt in her voice. She was swallowing the whole thing hook, line and sinker.

"So you see, you've got to let me help them. The poor little children …" Arta continued to lay on the pathos as thick as she could manage.

Jerking and blinking like someone shaking herself out of a daydream, Silver asked, "This Vault, is it far away?"

"It's just up in the hills over there."

Silver nodded. "I remember in Megaton they had a story about a Vault that was somewhere in the hills nearby. But no-one could ever get in."

"Well, I can. I have … the password."

Silver said eagerly, "Then we can go. We can go right now."

"_We?"_

"Yeah, we. Look Arta, I've changed my mind. I've often dreamt about living in a real Vault, but I reckoned it could never happen. Now I've got the opportunity. If I can come with you, I'll help. Together we'll put that Vault back on its feet, maybe get some other folk in too. I … I've been feeling terrible about this slaver thing and, you know, you're right. I shouldn't take the bad things that have happened in my life out on you. And especially not on those poor kiddies." Silver sounded absolutely sincere, her blue eyes full of concern. "I've always wanted children of my own, you know."

_You treacherous, lying bitch! You really think I'm stupid enough to fall for that 'momma' act again? You plan on getting me to let you inside the Vault, then calling on your slaver friends._

"Jeez, Silver, I can see you're not really a bad person. You've just had a tough time. But I mean, you wouldn't go back on your word, would you?"

"No way, kid! You see, before I couldn't see any way out my present difficulties; then you came along, and I jumped at the chance, at any chance. But now there's an opportunity of a whole new life for me, I won't throw it up for any money."

_God she sounds convincing! It shows how much people can lie, like Amata did, perhaps. But what am I saying, I'm lying my head off too! I guess I'm learning._

"I believe you. Still to make sure, in the Vault we used to swear on the Overseer's name to keep our promises. Is there something you can swear on to promise that you'll help us, and won't sell any of us to the slavers?"

"Yeah, I mean absolutely. I swear it on the … on the Washington Monument! It's a spire you can see almost everywhere in the Capital Wasteland. When a Wastelander makes a vow on that old monument, the thing's as good as done!"

_She really thinks I'm a trusting fool - and that's exactly what I want her to think._

_

* * *

_

"Okay kid, we're about ready to go. It's not that long till daylight, and we'll attract less trouble while its dark. That is, if you can find your way alright."

Silver had gathered together most of her possessions that could reasonably be carried, including her caps, a large supply of drugs and stimpaks, some clips of ammunition, some food packets and about half of Arta's supply of purified water. "It ain't wise to travel anywhere in the Wastes without food and water, even if you're expecting to find some." She'd allowed Arta to share the burden of food and water, and some of the ammo, though she kept both weapons herself. She'd even given Arta back a couple of stimpaks "I wouldn't want you to go dying on me."

Arta was much encouraged, as it seemed obvious that Silver was going to free her from the manacles. She said confidently, "I know how to get to the Vault, but there'll be a lot of climbing and clambering over rocks. I'll need to use my hands."

Silver gave her a sidelong look. "Yeah, we both will. Easy enough to slip up in the dark and take a nasty tumble. What we need is something to rope us together like climbers do. Then if one of us misses our footing somehow, the other one can help her out. Hmmm, let me think … we've got no rope but …" She unlocked one of the manacles from Arta's right wrist, then immediately clamped it to her own left one. "There you go!"

Arta could scarcely conceal her dismay. She hadn't expected this! Trying to keep her voice calm, she remonstrated, "It'll make things very awkward, we'll only have one free hand each."

"Then we'll have to make sure we work together as a team. At least if we fall to our deaths we'll go out together; wouldn't that be beautiful?"

Catching the hint of mockery, Arta thought how cleverly Silver had guarded against treachery from her new ally. Running away or pushing her off a cliff would be impossible; both of which Arta had contemplated. And Silver could portray the umbilical attachment between them as a mere safety precaution.

_I don't care, I'll cut her fucking hand off if I have to!_

Leaving the shack by the rear entrance, they immediately encountered a slope leading up steeply amongst the rocks. The moon had set, and the ink darkness of the pre-dawn hours was upon them. Arta began to pick out a path upwards, choosing whichever way seemed easiest, for she had absolutely no intention of taking Silver anywhere near Vault 101, and was simply waiting for a suitable opportunity to attack her.

Time passed, the stars grew faint and the sky paler, and still they climbed. Silver's breathing was growing ragged, and she perspired visibly. Several times the younger woman's hands itched to pick up a rock, and smash in her companion's skull, but on each occasion she sensed Silver watching her intently with her free hand close to her gun.

_Not yet. Let her get tired. Let her get distracted._

The climb became still more difficult, with the necessity of negotiating a passage over rocks of granite-like hardness, the rough, jagged edges cutting into their hands. As Silver had predicted, progress was impossible without close co-operation, and the sharp contradiction between this and Arta's murderous thoughts made her feel like a hypocrite. Sometimes she regarded Silver with the cold detachment of one observing the struggling of an insect, before coming to herself and extending another arm to pull her up.

They finally reached something resembling a level surface, interspersed with boulders, yet still below the topmost ridge of the hills. And now it was Arta who became distracted, for looking back eastwards she could see the sky had lightened to a pale rose-gold. The light grew stronger and the ruins of the Capital Wasteland stood out in sharper definition, eddies of dust swirling across the ochre coloured surface far below. Behind the spire Silver had called the Washington Monument, the edge of the world was rimmed with fire.

Arta felt a hard grip on her arm. She turned; saw the fear in blue eyes flecked with amber. Silver was pointing in the opposite direction to where one of the great teetering road bridges stretched across the winding distant snake of a watercourse to connect with the line of hills. Figures tiny as ants were moving to and fro along its length, overlooking the plateau on which they stood. The rising sun caught a flash of gold off a faraway object carried by one.

Silver was speaking urgently in low tones. "We've gotta go back, it's only a matter of time before …"

The echoing thunder of a shot interrupted her words, and a bullet whined somewhere close.

Silver cursed and pulled Arta down behind a large boulder near the precipice. She drew the Beretta. "Shit, they've spotted us! What the hell do we do?"

Arta looked back the way they'd come. It looked easy enough to return if …

She said, "Unlock me! We can go back down much faster if we separate now. Hurry, they'll be coming!"

"Fuck! Alright, I guess its time to cut the cord." Silver put down the pistol, fumbled for the key. She bent forward intently, and turned it to unlock the manacles. "Okay, let's get out …"

The instant her hands were free, Arta put both of them on Silver's shoulders, and shoved hard.

She remembered long afterwards the look of complete, almost comical astonishment on Silver's face, her mouth wide open to scream, as she fell backwards into space, her arms extended helplessly, the loose sleeves of her garment flapping like the wings of an angel falling.

* * *

Eight chapters already, and we've not even got to Megaton, or met any of the people promised in the summary. Well I guarantee we'll put that right in the very next chapter.


	9. Megaton

Ch 9 Megaton

Arta crouched almost as motionless as the rock behind which she hid. She could hear the crunching of light shale beneath heavy boots, getting closer and closer. The feeling of tension as the searchers approached recalled childish Vault games of hide and seek. _But the price of losing might be my life._

A woman's voice came, clear and strong, with a tone of evil glee that reminded her all too well of the female barbarian who'd attacked her at the School.

"Looks like somebody took a tumble onto the rocks. One less for us to deal with. She ain't moving anyway."

A man asked gruffly, "Reckon anyone else is around?"

Arta caught her breath, but the woman said impatiently, "Fuck knows! I saw movement is all. Then I heard the scream. Check if you want, I'm going down to take a look."

More crunching of boots followed, and Arta drew her weapon and prayed. From the other side of the boulder, the man muttered, "I ain't getting jumped while she gets first dibs on the loot." Then loudly, "Come out wherever you are!" At a much lower volume, "Ah, there ain't nobody." Calling down, "Hey, Lorel, is she dead?"

The woman's voice came from somewhere below, sounding excited. "She's out cold. But Skar, you gotta take a look at this!"

"Anything good?"

"Is there just! This skank is loaded!" To Arta's relief, she heard the man move away, presumably to look over the cliff. "She's carrying a small mountain of caps."

Skar asked disappointedly, "Is that all? Ain't much good to us, are they? People tend to shoot at us on sight before we get a chance to buy anything. Any decent weapons?"

"Yeah, a plasma rifle, a missile launcher and fifty grenades. What d'you think the kind of stupid bitch who panics and falls off cliffs is carrying? A cheap Chinese pistol is all."

"Well, that's shit then. And fuck off with the wise cracks!"

"I'm telling you there's hundreds of caps, arse-hole. And there's more. Drugs, lots of them."

"Now you're talking!" Skar sounded distinctly more enthusiastic. "Wait, I'm coming down." Arta heard scrambling noises.

"Great, I feel safer already! You sure nobody's up there?"

Skar's voice came from below now. "Yeah, yeah! Don't get your pants on fire! What've we got then?"

"Almost a little bit of everything, except buffout. And plenty of psycho. Looks like she was a junky." Lorel giggled. "Takes one to know one, eh?"

"Heh, heh! Yeah, she looks like a cheap Wasteland whore. What's she doing with all the dosh then?"

"Dunno. Who gives a shit. Let's shoot up now."

"Good idea."

Arta waited until she heard noises of satisfaction, then quietly moved below the top of the ridge. She was about to continue down the slope, then paused. If Silver wasn't dead, it would be as well to find out about her probable fate. She could still hear Skar and Lorel talking.

Skar said, "Trinny'll want us to take this stuff back to base. 'Specially the caps. She can probably use 'em for something. And the broad, of course."

"Yeah, well you do that then. Seeing as you're a big suck-arse." Lorel made a sound of contempt. "You think maybe if you show her what a good boy you've been, she'll condescend to let you fuck her. Think again, arse-hole."

Skar grunted angrily. "Nothing to do with it! If she finds we're holding out on her, she won't just skin us alive. She'll skin us alive _and_ feed us to the mole rats."

"She likes her 'mole rat fishing' don't she? But if you weren't the kind of gutless arse-wipe that no woman would respect, I'd suggest slitting the bitch's throat, taking the whole lot and getting out."

Skar asked, puzzled, "What, you mean join another crew?"

"No, dick-for-brains, what'd be the point in that? I mean get out of raiding altogether. Retire."

"You're kidding! Why would we wanna?"

"Why'd'you think? How many of our clan are older than about twenty-five, Skar? A handful. Trinny's War Chief, and she's not even that old."

"Ah, well, it's a short life but a merry one! And those townie scum mostly don't live that long in any case. Particularly after we pay 'em a visit."

"With all these caps, maybe we'd do better." But Lorel spoke without real conviction.

"Forget it, there's not even that many between the two of us. Anyway, you'd be bored with no one to torture." Skar gave a chuckle.

Regretfully Lorel said, "I hate to admit a moron like yourself could be right, but I guess I havta. C'mon, let's get this stuff packed up."

"Better wait for the whore to wake up first. I ain't dragging her."

Lorel giggled. "Oh, I love to see 'em wake up and find they've been captured. They usually start to cry or wet themselves. Or they have that kinda fixed terrified look. It makes me hot even thinking about it."

"That's 'cos you're a fucked up psycho bitch."

"Why thank you, Skar!"

"Don't mention it, Lorel! I wonder if it'll be the mole rats for her. Now that's entertainment!"

Lorel said thoughtfully, "Hanging 'em up to die of thirst or malnutrition is more subtle. But I've got to agree, you can't beat the mole rats for sheer spectacle. And we can play with her first too."

"Hah, she's too skanky for my taste!"

"That's 'cos your taste extends only to shivering virgins. You can't handle a real woman."

"Oh, yeah? Just wait till we get back and I'll show you."

"Oooh, you sound so masterful! But I think I'd rather copulate with a Ghoul." Making a noise of impatience, Lorel continued, "Is the bitch never going to wake? I hope she ain't in a coma."

"Looks like she hit her head on a rock. But she didn't fall that far. Maybe we could throw water on her, or something." A pause. "Hey, this water tastes … different. Not like piss as usual."

"Gimme that! Jees, I think this is real purified water!"

"No shit! And there's a whole lot of it." Another pause, in which Arta heard a terrible groan. "Hey, I think she's coming to."

"Oh, great! I can't wait to see her face. This is gonna be such fun!"

Arta shuddered. Silver's awful doom was now clear to her. Would it have been better not to know? Yet she couldn't have the fear of a possible vendetta hanging over her. And karma could be a bitch.

_Should I try to rescue her from a fate worse than death? At the risk of my own life? After what she was going to do to me – after what she did to me?_

_Hell, no!_

_

* * *

_

Sheriff Lucas Simms opened his eyes, and stared at the ceiling. He was hoping against hope not to see traces of dawn leaking through the holes in the ramshackle dwelling he had made his home. But the stippling of orange light across the floor meant it was time to start his main patrol.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slid off his creaking bunk bed almost fully clothed, automatically reaching for the well cared for Chinese assault rifle that was his constant companion. He needed only to put on his Regulator duster and Stetson to be ready on the instant. It was often necessary for him to wake rapidly to deal with some situation which his 'deputies', for their own varying reasons, could not or would handle themselves, even during his agreed rest periods.

As was his habit when rising in less pressured circumstances, Simms spent a minute contemplating the top bunk where his son, Harden, remained held within the peaceful, untroubled slumber of a child. At times of optimism, Simms remained grateful that his boy could experience a tranquility rare in the post-apocalypse world ; in more fretful moods he merely hoped it would continue for as long as possible. Either way, he was reminded of the principle reason why he continued to bear the heavy responsibility of Town Regulator, and was immediately energised to begin his daily rounds.

Pausing only to bite into a piece of Mutfruit left on the table, Simms pushed open the shack door, squinted slightly against the strong light, and exchanged a casual salute with the Town Watch, Jethro Stockholm, atop his perch above the main gate of Megaton. He assumed from the time of day it was Jethro, though from this distance he couldn't be absolutely sure it wasn't his brother, Paul. The two alternated in the duty of keeping an eye on the town and the surrounding Waste, thus giving rise to the Megaton saying, "_Stockholm never sleeps_".

Thus assured that the walls of the town literally and metaphorically stood unbreached, Simms turned onto the main path leading from the gate, which led steeply down towards the brahmin pens and the undetonated atomic bomb. In the surrounding pool, Confessor Cromwell was beginning his morning sermon, bathed in radioactive water like an old time preacher performing a baptism. The terraces and jerrybuilt structures of Megaton towered all around. Simms reflected sadly that, despite the pride he took in his position as sheriff and nominal mayor, this most famous human outpost of the Capital Wasteland would've looked like a shantytown to those who had lived before the last Great War.

Around half-way down the path, Simms looked up to where one of his part-time 'deputies', Jericho, was sitting on the terrace outside his corrugated iron shack, feet nonchalantly on the table, and a bottle of liquor near at hand. With the smallest of gestures, Simms marked the 'changing of the guard'. Jericho's only visible response was to automatically reach for the booze, although Simms was quite sure he'd been partaking of it during the period of his watch, and would continue to do so throughout the rest of the day. It was hard to determine what effect, if any, alcohol had on the performance of Jericho's duties. It was as likely as not that his response to any disorder would result in more mayhem and destruction than if he had completely ignored the situation, which he often did anyway.

Simms generally tolerated these frequent derelictions on Jericho's part, as the deterrent effect that he might get involved probably prevented a lot of trouble in the first place. Not to mention that his control over Jericho's activities was at best tenuous. With the possible exception of Billy Creel, his deputies considered themselves a law unto themselves, and more or less did as they pleased before, during and after their period on duty.

Billy at least shared Simms' desire to make Megaton a place where children could grow up in relative safety, and carried out his responsibilities well enough when he had the time. Colin Moriarty, on the other hand, only got involved when he considered that one of his many commercial and political interests was at risk or could be advanced. In addition he considered Simms a threat to his considerable power base and was, in the opinion of most reasonable folk, one of the biggest scoundrels in the Wasteland. That he was in part responsible for justice in Megaton was perhaps the greatest irony of all.

Having to allow for his deputies' deficiencies was only one of the many necessary compromises Simms was forced to make to continue any kind of legal process in the town he cared about. He knew that by pre-war standards he and his fellow lawmen would be considered a bunch of vigilantes, carrying out arbitrary justice at the point of a gun.

The Sheriff completed his patrol to the bottom of the crater, pausing to pass some friendly words with the Confessor and his acolytes from the Church of Atom. Earnest, well-intentioned loonies without a doubt, but their constant vigil around the still live bomb was an important safeguard. All Simms' efforts to find someone with advanced skills in bomb defusion had thus far met with failure, so it was as well to have a bunch of religious fanatics hanging around to discourage anyone from tampering with the device.

Before moving on, he flirted mildly with Jenny Stahl at her stall outside _The Brass Lantern_. Simms carried a secret torch for the attractive brunette, and thought she might entertain the idea of a romantic liaison. Relationships though were always problematic for a man in his position, especially as he had a young son to care for. That said, he was only human, and had often felt lonely since Harden's mother had died.

He was on his way back up the main path, expecting to have to check in the visiting traders who often arrived around dawn, when he heard the sharp crack of Stockholm's hunting rifle. Seeing that the Watchman was aiming at something beyond the walls, Simms left his rifle slung and made for the gate as fast as he could.

Stockholm shouted down, "It's only a pack of mole rats but they're trying to chase someone down. She doesn't look like a Raider."

"OK, we'll help her out, but try to conserve ammo if you can."

Stockholm had already set in motion the mechanism that opened the main gate to Megaton. Simms hastened through, and surveyed the immediate area. His attention was drawn by the screeching of three mole rats, rodent-like creatures the size of a large dog, their ugly elongated heads merging with their fat, rounded bodies. They were pursuing their victim, a young woman in a leather jacket, with remarkable speed on their short stubby legs. As swiftly as she fled, they remained just behind her, snapping at her heels with savage jaws that resembled parrots' bills.

Unslinging his rifle, Simms shouted, "Over this way! Try to climb a rock."

The woman looked in his direction, and almost fell. The mole rats nearly had her, but Stockholm fired again, and with either great skill or considerable luck managed to hit the leg of the foremost one. The creature slowed and the resulting collision with its fellows following behind allowed the woman to gain several yards. Responding to Simm's advice, she turned towards him, made for the nearest outcropping of rock and scrambled up.

This won her a few more valuable seconds, as the mole rats halted when confronted by the obstruction. But Simms knew they were able to leap several feet in the air, and that the opportunity to shoot at them while relatively immobile must be taken.

He shouted, "Quick, shoot before they jump up!" Levelling his assault rifle, he fired several bursts of semi-automatic fire at the closest creature, resulting in it flipping over with blood spraying from its side. A second mole rat dropped from the combination of a torso shot by Stockholm, and laser blasts from Deputy Weld, the sentry Protectron robot, automatically opening up on a hostile target within its range.

The remaining mole rat screamed, and then leapt at the woman. She had quickly drawn a pistol, and although she looked terrified, Simms noticed that her aim was steady and true. Two shots hit the mutated creature squarely between the eyes, and it fell back dead.

Simms heaved a sigh of relief. _That's another one saved_, he thought. _And the mole rat meat will just about cover the cost of the ammo. Not a bad way to start the day._ Hefting his rifle, he strolled over to the panting woman.

"You OK? You're not wounded?"

"I'm fine," she gasped. "Those things didn't get me." Simms figured the hyperventilation was as much due to terror as exhaustion. The woman appeared extremely fit and in remarkably good health. _I think this is going to be an interesting encounter, _he thought. _Lets take a good look at this one._

With typical male shallowness, he first considered her aesthetic qualities. _Not conventionally beautiful like Jenny. _Grey-blue eyes set quite widely apart, sharply arched brows, a well-shaped nose and cheekbones, a strong jaw line. Very sensual lips. Skin strangely pallid yet with a youthful bloom, chocolate brown hair cut in a short shag. A face of character and determination, with enough womanly softness to arouse passion. Physically she was well proportioned, with firm-looking breasts and buttocks. _Undeniably sexually attractive, though she should perhaps grow her hair longer._

Simms had greater trouble trying to fit the woman into any of the usual Wasteland categories. She was certainly not a Raider or a hobo; she had nothing of that burnt out, ragged and feral appearance. Rather the suggestion of high living, and the skill and speed with which she had handled her weapon was typical of a private mercenary, slaver or Brotherhood initiate. Yet none of these normally travelled the Wastes alone and armoured so lightly. And she looked even less like a trader. How to resolve this puzzle?

Holding out his hand, he said, "I'm Lucas Simms, Sheriff of Megaton. And Mayor too, when the need arises."

The woman hesitated, then shook the proffered hand firmly. She said, "My name is Artemesia Wendell. And I'm hoping to stay in your town."

By now Simms had compiled a number of small clues to reach a probable conclusion about his mysterious visitor. The slightly strange accent with which she spoke, the jumpsuit partly visible beneath her black leather jacket, most of all the way she stared about her in wide-eyed wonder, with the simple innocent gaze of a child.

Touching his Stetson in salute, he said, "Well then, Ms Artemesia Wendell, welcome to Megaton. Or perhaps I should say, welcome to the Outside World."

The woman started, and then blushed. Behind Simms, the gates to Megaton were drawn apart and Deputy Weld echoed his words in staccato robotic tones:

"_Welcome-to-Megaton. Best-little-town-in-the-Waste-land."_

_

* * *

_

Arta cursed inwardly. She hadn't meant to advertise her Vault heritage so soon, especially now that she realised people like Silver might use that knowledge to take advantage of her in some way.

At least this Sheriff seemed a decent enough guy, who might be persuaded to be discreet. His deep, strong but gentle voice and calm dark eyes reminded her of Officer Gomez. He was dressed somewhat like a cowboy in picture books, with a Stetson, long coat and tall boots but she decided it would be impolite to comment on that. Instead she said, "I'd prefer not to draw people's attention to where I'm from, if its all the same to you."

Simms made a non-committal gesture. "I can understand why you might not want to do that. But in order to learn about the world, you'll have to ask questions; and those are likely to betray your origins. I can't stop rumours spreading around town, as they usually do."

Arta said, "But perhaps you could avoid starting any."

Simms gave the faintest of shrugs. Then he said, "If you're ready to go in, I can tell you something about the town, answer any questions you might have."

"OK." Arta was about to follow him, when she noticed a ragged and bearded man sitting not far away from the gate.

Noticing her gaze, he croaked, "Water!"

"Who's that?" she asked the Sheriff.

"He's just a water beggar. I wouldn't trouble yourself too much because …"

But Arta had already moved to talk to the man. Simms raised his eyebrows and waited, chin on hand, for her to finish.

_I thought this would be interesting, and I was right._

_

* * *

_

"I imagine this must look very strange to you."

_You imagine correctly. The buildings are all ramshackle and appear to be made of parts of old air vehicles or pieces of wrinkled metal put together. There seems to be an animal with two heads crapping all over the place. And what's that large metal thing in the pool down there? _

She said, "The way everything slopes down towards the centre …it's like the town's in a big bowl."

Simms nodded. "Precisely so. It is. Or to be more accurate, it's in a bomb crater."

"A … a bomb crater?"

"Yes, one left by an atom bomb that failed to explode. And the bomb's still right there in the centre. Hence the name of the town."

"Oh, I was wondering why … is it safe?"

Simms coughed. "Well, Megaton's been here for years. But since you ask, no, not completely. It's still live. However there were good reasons why the town grew up around it, which you'll have to ask our oldest resident, Manya, about."

"Yeah, there must have been some very good reasons." Thinking to test the Sheriff's sense of humour, she added: "Otherwise people would think you're all crazy ape bonkers."

Simms chuckled. "Oh, some of us are! The Church of Atom, for example, believes the bomb to be a blessing. I must beg to differ. I don't suppose …" he cast an enquiring look in Arta's direction "that you've any expertise with disarming such devices?"

"You want me to mess with an atomic bomb? You really are mad!"

The Sheriff coughed again. "Well, it was only a thought. Before I continue with my duties, is there anything I can help you with?"

"Well, yes, first I need somewhere to stay, and to get something to eat and drink. But …" She made a woeful face. "I don't have any money … I mean caps."

"Food and drink won't be a problem if you've got any goods to trade. Try _The Brass Lantern._ Accommodation is trickier. You happen to know that passage in the Bible where there's no room in the inn? That's more or less the situation. We grant residency only in exceptional circumstances, and places for transient visitors are usually chock full." Seeing Arta's expression remained gloomy, he put an arm on her shoulder. "Don't worry. If you have to doss somewhere, I'm not gonna arrest you for vagrancy. My advice is to check out _Moriarty's. _You most likely won't be able to afford to stay there, but you might make some useful contacts. Perhaps even meet someone who'll put you up."

"Right. Thanks for the advice. I have a few items I could perhaps barter." _But not many. Only what Silver gave me to carry, and some things she left in her hut. Damn, why couldn't I have killed the bitch without losing her stuff!_" Trying to put this exasperating thought to the back of her mind, she asked, "Can you give me directions to those places you mentioned?"

"Sure thing. There's one thing I need to say to you first, and I hope you'll remember it. If there's any disturbance of the peace in Megaton - and that includes stealing, trespass or violence - we deal with it very directly, some might say harshly. Which is to say, we shoot first, then ask questions. Do you understand me?"

Pouting a little, Arta said, "Really I don't aim to cause any trouble." Trying to use her womanly charms for the first time in a while, she added suavely, "Honestly, Sheriff, when you get to know me, you'll realise I'm a complete pushover!"

If Simms was affected, then he made a good job concealing it.

"Well I guess if that's true and there were more people like you, my job'd be a lot easier. Unfortunately I often have to deal with the worst low lifes imaginable. But as you seem tolerably more grounded than some I've seen come out of those Vaults, I'll add some extra advice that I don't give to everyone. If _any _shooting starts, whether or not it was your fault, take cover if you can, and don't fire back except to save your life. Because we aren't able to figure out the rights and wrongs in a fire fight; we'll come in on the side of any resident, and if we can't sort it that way, we'll shoot at whoever keeps firing until they stop, one way or another."

Slightly disappointed, Arta said, "I think I understand."

"Good. Now here are your directions …"

Simms watched the trim figure diminish in apparent size as she walked down the sloping path. _I hope she makes it through somehow, _he thought. _She seems like a good kid and not one of those crazies. But I'm still gonna have to warn folks there may be a psycho in their midst. No sense in taking any chances. And she'll probably be dead within a month or so anyway._

He shook his head regretfully. _A pity. Nice piece of arse too._

_

* * *

_

Well I guess I've just about fulfilled my promise, because we've reached Megaton and (very briefly) met Jericho. Someone once told me that you should always under-promise and over-deliver, and I wish I'd remembered that last week! At least that means there's still more to look forward to next chapter (Oh dear, I've done it again!)

I was thinking though of having a competition for Raider names, as mine seem a bit lame. Maybe you could pm them to me, and I could include the best in the story. Probably retrospectively, as I don't anticipate very many named Raiders in the future. It's more a bit of fun really.

One final point about Stockholm. Obviously the same guy couldn't realistically be on watch 24 hrs a day; so we have the brothers Jethro and Paul. Maybe I should've had a name competition for them too!


	10. Moriarty's

Ch 10 Moriarty's

Megaton! Hub of the Wastes! Town of a Thousand Stories! The Heart and Soul of the Capital!

Throughout history there have been cities whose names have evoked awe and wonder at the mere mention: Babylon, Rome, Athens, Beijing, New York, Tokyo, Mumbai; the list could go on and on depending on the perspective and culture of the admirer. Their size and eminence may have fluctuated widely throughout the period of their existence, from mere hundreds of dwelling places to megalopolises. Each though has some claim to an eternal fame; to have stood out as representative of the civilisation and _zeitgeist_ which brought it to birth.

In its own way, at one of the lowest points in the cycle of human existence on the planet, Megaton perhaps deserved to stand amongst such company. If the Wasteland had a pulse, it was here that it beat most strongly and stubbornly. As Arta sought for _Moriarty's_, one of the most famous establishments in a famous town, she may have had some sense of being at the very axis of the world she had entered. But in truth, the intense excitement that she felt would probably have been aroused by the humblest and most obscure of the scattered enclaves of the former capital. For the first time she was encountering not just one, but a whole community of people different to those with whom she had been forced to live all her life; and it was making her giddy and almost faint. The sheer proximity of so many strangers, each with his or her own individual garment and style, so different to the uniformity of Vault citizens, was thrilling and overwhelming.

Thus her journey to the taverna, which should have taken a matter of minutes, was much prolonged as she took in the unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells. Here a malodorous drifter in rough animal hide and an antique crash helmet would rub shoulders with a steely-eyed mercenary in full combat armour, or a soft voiced trader haggle over stimpaks with a Wasteland surgeon in a blood-spattered vest. Double-headed brahmin emitted foul blasts of flatulence while carrion birds called and rode the thermals overhead.

Near the bomb, an attractive woman in a yellow jumpsuit was tending a food stall next to a sign marked _The Brass Lantern, _her light brown hair set in a style resembling Silver's.

Smiling warmly at Arta, she said, "I'm Jenny Stahl, and I'm sure we haven't met before."

Returning the compliment, Arta said, "I'm Arta, and I'm sure you're right."

Jenny continued to smile. "Can I maybe interest you in breakfast? I guarantee the most competitive prices in town."

Although Simms had recommended the place, Arta was uncertain. She was not keen to down yet more irradiated food. Perhaps she should first learn more about the best eateries from the local opinion.

Politely she answered, "Thank you, but I'm not hungry right now, and I'm on my way to _Moriarty's. _Maybe later."

Jenny's smile froze somewhat. "Sure, go there if you prefer drinks laced with the man's own piss!"

Arta asked, "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, nothing! If you want good value food and drink, you know where to get it."

Before Arta could continue on her way, an elderly man with a grey beard and a kindly expression detained her in conversation. He wore simple, tattered clothing and was standing ankle deep in the pool next to the bomb. He spoke in gentle and mellow tones:

"Can it be, a new soul to receive the gift of division? Dear child, you are welcome, welcome to Megaton! I am Confessor Cromwell, prophet of Atom."

_Must be one of the religious crazies the Sheriff talked about._ She narrowly avoided stepping into the water, and regarded her pip boy with alarm. "Confessor, do you realise you're standing in a highly irradiated pool? I expect the bomb is causing it!"

"Indeed I do, and so it is, dear child. The waters bathe me in the Glow, and the 'bomb', as you call it, brings the promise of new life through holy division."

Arta listened while the Confessor explained his religion. She had had little interest in such concepts before. Her father had often repeated her mother Catherine's favourite Bible verse, which spoke of giving freely of the 'Waters of Life.' But as a scientist, he seemed to see religion only as a metaphor for something else, and she shared with him the view that religious stories were to be regarded in this symbolic light, rather than taken as serious evidence of the supernatural. She assumed that he valued the passage only because of its association with his dead wife.

The Church of Atom believed that the splitting of the atom somehow created two new universes every time it occurred, thus making radioactivity a good thing. It seemed strange and even ridiculous but, like many religious tenets, impossible to prove or disprove. However Arta could not help wondering whether the Confessor's own survival, considering his advanced age, was a kind of miracle in itself. Then again he could take the 'Radaway' Silver had mentioned, though this would be directly contrary to his professed beliefs. Perhaps it would be as well to extend the cynicism she had developed towards Vault affairs to the outside world and its religions.

She briefly considered accepting the Confessor's invitation to "Come to the Church anytime," taking into account she hadn't anywhere to stay. Eventually though she decided it wasn't worth the risk they might ask her to share in their lunatic desire to become irradiated. Cromwell seemed untroubled by her non-committal reply, and advised her to "Walk in the Glow."

By this time Arta was finding herself, rather than the Confessor or his sermon, to be the centre of attention. Several bystanders spoke to her, making it obvious that they knew of her Vault heritage. With a feeling of disappointed betrayal, Arta realised that for some reason Sheriff Simms had spread the rumour around town, despite her pleas to the contrary. The reactions she provoked ran the gamut from excited curiosity, to pretended indifference, to barely concealed suspicion and hostility. Some people also tried to sell her things she suspected were valueless. The feeling of being a kind of celebrity was exhilarating, yet also eventually something of an annoyance. She decided it was high time to move on to _Moriarty's_, and bade farewell to Confessor Cromwell.

He smiled beneficently. "Rays shower you, child!"

* * *

Nova applied fresh lipstick, and winced at the pain in her arm. The last client had been rougher than usual, but not so violent that she'd had no choice but to call for help. Or, even worse, use the last resort silenced pistol she kept under the bed. Moriarty expected her to put up with such things or deal with them, and most of the time she could handle customers verbally or sexually. Sometimes though she lost control; and then she had to balance present pain or danger with the beating she knew Moriarty would inflict, if he thought she had insufficient reason for upsetting a client and losing him money. Why couldn't the evil bastard die? If only one of the many people who hated him would kill him, very painfully. Nova frequently fantasized doing it herself, but knew that in reality the fear of retaliation from Moriarty's spider-like network of contacts would prevent her and most likely anyone else from trying. Even a brain-fucked junky like Silver had only run away, and she'd almost certainly come to a bad end.

And no one amongst Nova's clients, regular or passers through, had been willing and able, despite her considerable charms, to 'rescue' her, knowing as they did it would mean disposing of Moriarty first. Fortunately the handful that had even got so far as trying had died, shot down by Moriarty's own magnum, before they could reveal who'd put them up to it. Of course, Nova had been ready to apply the coup de grace to make sure they didn't.

Even Jericho … she sighed at the memory … had shrugged and then shaken his head.

_Thump, thump, thump! _That was Gob again, banging the radio in a futile attempt to get Galaxy News Radio to come through clear. _Poor Gob, _she thought. _It never occurs to him to raise his voice to Moriarty, let alone try to kill him. And that damn station is one of the things that keeps him going._

From her usual seat near the door, Lucy West noticed Nova had descended the stairs, and gave her the kind of look that she'd become familiar with from people who weren't clients or potential clients: a mixture of sympathy, pity and contempt. _I'm a whore,_ she thought bitterly. _What should I expect?_

Lucy said, "I heard in the town there's someone here that's just come out of a Vault. A young woman."

"From Vault 101?" Nova was interested and even excited, but the air of languor she cultivated so carefully didn't allow her to show it. And her sensitive radar had detected that she wasn't alone in paying attention to this news. From across the room, she felt the gaze of a pair of keen eyes from beneath a carefully preserved pre-war hat and elegant tortoiseshell glasses.

_A funny guy, Burke, and not in any humourous way. Sits there in the corner most of the time smoking. Never speaks to staff except to order drinks. Only speaks to customers occasionally, and then always strangers. Has a house in Megaton that he obtained not long ago without any trouble or questions being asked. No one seems to know his first name. It's just "Mr Burke."_

"That's the rumour." Lucy's clear blue eyes met Nova's challengingly, and her mouth twisted in wry amusement. "So let the freak show begin."

_We pretend to be friends, but you don't really like me, do you Lucy? One of your reasons for hanging round here is so you can feel superior. I don't know what you did to get your big house; you may wear light merc armour but it's for style; you're not a fighter. I wonder whether you've ever had to use that pretty mouth of yours as I do in my line of work?_

Nova drawled, "Well it's only a matter of time before she comes up here to see the famous saloon and the principal freaks."

Lucy began, "I didn't mean to imply …"

"I know exactly what you meant."

The younger blonde woman grimaced slightly, then carried on the conversation regardless. Nova only half listened. She had drifted off into another of her fantasies, involving Lucy and Jenny Stahl from _The Brass Lantern_. As the vast majority of Nova's clients were male, her own sexual interests were mainly lesbian, though this particular daydream was a kind of revenge on the two women for their privileged status in Megaton. In her position of relative powerlessness, it was some consolation that they couldn't stop her doing whatever she wanted with them in her head.

Jenny usually wore a dowdy jumpsuit, and acted rather like a prude, so it suited Nova to imagine that underneath it she had on the sexiest, naughtiest underwear one could find these days, the shameless hussy! Lucy, she decided, would do well enough with her present mercenary garb, except that the little slut would be 'going commando' with respect to undergarments. Having dressed her dolls, Nova mentally whisked them away to a favourite setting: the slaver pens of Paradise Falls, transforming herself and Lucy into big bad guards, and Jenny into their cowering captive.

Nova began Jenny's imaginary humiliation by setting her to work buffing their boots with her tongue, then made her stand on a chair to remove her jumpsuit, and reveal her shamefully risqué lingerie. While Lucy ripped off her underpants, Nova undid her bra, and the two of them were giving their full attention to Jenny's deliciously exposed and vulnerable naked form, when the saloon door swung … and the dream vanished like smoke.

_That's her without a doubt. The look of a lost child, and the jumpsuit beneath the jacket. If she thinks she's going incognito, then she doesn't know this town._

_And she's quite the lovely one! Not even twenty, I'll warrant. I wonder when she'll try to avail herself of my services. Most Vault escapees don't have the caps and die before they can get them. I make occasional exceptions, and for this one I might. Pity for her to go to waste on some jerk. Because she'll end up in somebody's bed pretty soon. They all do. Reaching for that crumb of comfort, that last flame to consume them before going out forever._

_Even that scientist guy on some crazy mission wasn't able to resist …_

The young woman observed the room carefully, in particular casting a puzzled glance in Burke's direction. Surprisingly he reacted by raising his hat ever so slightly, a curiously old-fashioned gesture. In response, she clasped her hands nervously in front of her.

Her gaze took in Lucy and Nova, then slid away. Seeming to sense the weight of expectation, she took a couple of strides towards the bar. Gob had disappeared into the backroom, but he was returning now, and Nova could guess what was coming.

_I hope she doesn't upset him too much._

_

* * *

_

Arta's skin crawled as she saw a nightmarish creature emerging from a side room behind the bar. It looked much like the undead zombies in Grognak and the Legions of Darkness (Issue twenty). Its face was a horrifying mess of rotting flesh, in which two cloudy eyes stared like poached eggs in fry pan full of offal. A few tatters of black hair clung to its putrescent, earless scalp and shreds of skin flapped around its neck, revealing the vertebrae behind. She could see the exposed sinews of its arms and the musculature of each finger, although the rest of its wasted form was mercifully and bizarrely hidden beneath a tattered t-shirt and a pair of corded trousers.

Arta began to back away, her hand moving towards her weapon, until she realised she was the only person in the room reacting in this way, and that most of the patrons were watching with undisguised amusement.

Ignoring her for a moment, the apparition delivered a heavy thump to the radio on the bar, which continued to emit static. Then it spoke in a thick guttural tone:

"Morning, smoothskin. Is there anything I can get you?"

"Wh .. wh ..what are you …?" Arta gasped.

The zombie-like creature held up its hands protectively in an obvious gesture of fear.

"Don't hit me!" it pleaded.

Somewhat reassured by the creature's timidity, Arta examined it with fascination. Its resemblance to a walking corpse was uncanny, but it evidently lived and breathed in some way. Could it be a human suffering from some terrible, wasting disease?

Before she could speculate further, it spoke again. "I work here, you see. I'm not like the ferals. Mr Moriarty made me the barman. I know most people aren't used to ghouls that talk and serve them drinks."

Arta felt her head throbbing. So many new and different things had occurred, and here she was talking to a zombie … a ghoul, he had called himself. Another one of President Eden's 'enemies', she remembered.

Noticing the creature was still watching her apprehensively, and trying to ignore the faint smell of decay, she asked gently, "What happened to you? Are you ill?"

The creature nervously twitched its nose, or rather the skin remaining around the gap where its nose _should_ have been. "Ill? You don't know about ghouls?"

"It's the radiation, hon." Arta turned at the sound of the languid, smooth as silk voice. The woman who had spoken was leaning casually against a wall not far from the bar. Her rich, velvety tones were heavily laden with sexuality, and her appearance was seductive and striking. She appeared to be in her late twenties to early thirties, retaining a good figure and possessed of a beauty enhanced by her maturity. Her red hair hung in close ringlets above well-drawn brows and pale features that were proudly defiant, as though issuing a challenge to the world.

The woman sauntered forward to inspect Arta with nonchalance. "You must be the girl out of the Vault." She held out a hand. "I'm Nova, and this … " indicating the ghoul "this is Gob. If you can get round his appearance, he's really quite a sweetie."

Arta noticed from the ghoul's posture that he seemed embarrassed by Nova's praise. She took the proffered hand, finding it smooth and a trifle cool, and holding it perhaps a little too long. The woman's grey-green eyes lit up with amusement, and her wide, sensual lips twitched upwards.

Arta found herself blushing, and after giving her own name, asked quickly, "You were saying something about Gob? Has he got radiation sickness?"

"Why don't you ask him? He can speak for himself."

Arta turned to Gob, who said rather awkwardly, "It ain't exactly sickness, Miss Arta. It's more like … a change. Some people exposed to radiation alter until they become like me. I ain't gonna die from it, and it doesn't hurt or make me feel ill. But because I look like a zombie, people get afraid or angry. Some shout at me or even hit me."

Arta said horrified, "That's awful! I mean, if it's not your fault …"

The ghoul shuffled uncomfortably. "I guess it's because of the ferals too."

"The ferals?"

"They're ghouls who've lost their minds and become savage. They mostly live in the old metro tunnels, and they kill and eat any humans they come across."

"Oh, I see." Arta wondered again about the strangeness of the world she had entered. "Well, don't worry Gob, I can tell you're not like them. I'd buy you a drink if I had any money."

The ghoul made a gesture of astonishment. "No one ever offers to buy me drinks. Except …" he looked a little shy "except Miss Nova sometimes." With a mixture of enthusiasm and caution, he added, "You can trade goods with me directly, and I'll give you the best discount I can. But don't let Mr Moriarty know about it or he may beat me."

Arta was shocked again. "He beats you?"

Gob shrugged, and Nova cut in, "That's just what the bastard is like. He treats Gob more like a slave sometimes. Maybe worse. He'd probably do the same to me more often, if he weren't worried about leaving marks on his prize asset. Instead he's got other ways to make my life miserable if I step out of line."

Confused Arta asked. "You work for him too? How are you a prize asset? What do you do?"

Nova gave her a look of amused tolerance. "I thought you might be able to work that out for yourself, hon'."

"She's the town whore."

Arta started, as a harsh voice spoke right behind her. She turned.

The man who confronted her was somewhat less than medium height, but powerfully built. Sweat sheened his balding head, and dripped from his dark, bristling beard. He had an exasperated look about him, as though everything he saw offended him, yet at the same time an air of cock-sureness, as if believing himself sufficient to handle whatever slings and arrows fortune might throw his way. His face had the aspect of a veteran: lined, sun-browned and world-weary, and his assault rifle and heavy combat armour showed signs of much use, modification and repair.

He stood almost nose to nose with Arta, so that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Irked by his disdainful expression, she stared back insolently, and for a few heartbeats their gazes locked one with another. Then the man bared his teeth in a grin that was the beginning of a short laugh, and with easy but irresistible strength thrust her aside. He made his way to the far end of the bar, and pulled up a stool. Seething with resentment at being manhandled, Arta turned back to Nova, who seemed unruffled.

"Jericho's a great one for calling a spade a spade – and he's called it right, that's what I do." Examining Arta's expression, she added, "You _do _know what a whore is, don't you, girlie?"

Feeling somewhat patronised by Nova, Arta said defensively, "I've read about them in books." She decided not to mention Silver.

"Well, there's a limit to what books can teach. That's something particularly true of my profession. And before you ask, its one hundred and twenty caps, upfront."

"I …I … wasn't going to ask!"

"Sure, hon', I believe you."

The man Nova had called Jericho was meanwhile sniggering. "She read about them in _books_! Listen to the educated lady! Wish I could've read them kinda books when I was a kid." There were several crude burst of laughter from around the tavern. The number of Megaton citizens crowding into the place, and their interest in the proceedings, was growing all the time.

Nova said reprovingly, "Give her a break, Jericho; she just got out of a Vault."

"No kidding? And there's me thinking she flew in from La La Land! Well tell her to stay out of my way. I hate them Vault arseholes." Jericho drew his stool closer to the bar, and signalled to Gob for service.

Arta was flushed from embarrassment and anger. She said heatedly, "I'm quite capable of looking after myself, and don't aim to get in the way of anyone, especially drunks with no manners." Turning back to the ghoul, she asked pointedly, "Gob, I'd like a glass of clean water please. I gave almost the last of my supply to some poor guy who seemed to have been left outside the town to die of thirst."

"I'm sorry, Miss Arta, I wish I could oblige you. But we mostly only serve beer and spirits."

From his bar stool nearby, Jericho gave a bark of laughter. "You did _what? _You gave that beggar _pure _water? Jesus, he must've thought Christmas came early!" He waved a hand dismissively. "Well, if you were hoping to get any more in Megaton, forget it."

Arta gave him a look of panicked incomprehension. "What are you talking about? Surely you must have more purified water?"

"Surely? Nothing! We're lucky most of the time if we get enough of the irradiated shit. The pipes are in that bad repair they're leaking constantly. Look, doll, the radiation's in everything here: in the water, in the food, in the dirt. You eat and drink it till you're sick. Then, if you can steal or trade any, you take Radaway. Or if you can't, you crawl away and die, like your friend out there's going to do, in spite of your …" his voice contained a snarl of contempt "_misplaced_ altruism."

Arta said slowly, "No, that can't be true. There's got to be somewhere with decent stuff to eat and drink. Somewhere pure and clean." She looked round at the sceptical audience. "There has to be!"

Jericho's shoulders were shaking. He said, "Darlin', you just popped out of that _hacienda_! Maybe you should pop yourself right back in … before someone pops a cap into your screwed up little brain!" He guffawed loudly, most of the patrons joining in the mirth.

A trace of longing coming into his rasping voice, Gob mused quietly, "Hey, maybe she's right …"

"Shut up, Gob!" Nova's calm but authoritative tone instantly commanded the ghoul's silence. To Jericho, she said, "I thought you'd had your time tormenting innocent little girls."

"Hey, can't nobody crack a joke round here? And ain't it about time she knew the … " another chuckle "other facts of life?"

"She'll find 'em out soon enough without you fucking with her head." Then in a kinder tone, "Hon', Jericho here's acting like a class A arsehole, but he's telling you the truth. Pure food and water are as rare here as a newborn with teeth. You gave away what many would kill for."

Arta met Nova's sympathetic eyes. She looked sincere, but she had to be wrong or lying. No way was she eating and drinking any more irradiated crap - she'd die first. Her mouth formed the stubborn line which had often led to her father saying, '_There's Artemesia in that mood again, everybody duck and cover!_'

Fixing Jericho with her hardest stare, she said, "I know it's out there. Else why did that poor bastard ask me for some? As for you, you big jerk-off, you probably don't have a large enough dick to squirt out a thimbleful of irradiated piss, let alone get yourself a decent woman who isn't a whore."

The bar rocked with laughter; Arta noted with satisfaction that neither Jericho nor Nova joined in, and thus her remarks had hit their intended targets.

Jericho drew his lips across his teeth. "I guess you think you're pretty clever, Miss Fancy Pants. Yeah, maybe somewhere that shit exists. But you sure as hell ain't gonna find it. Oh, you can talk to Moira at _Craterside_, and she'll tell you some moonshine like she always does to get clean arses like you to share in her craziness. You can even chat with nice Mr Burke over there. But you'll end up getting fucked, one way or another."

Arta asked Nova, "Just who is Burke? Why would he know anything?"

Nova gave her a tight smile. "If I knew anything about him, hon', I surely wouldn't want him to know it. After all, I'm just a whore." She turned on her heel, and walked up the rickety staircase.

Watching her go, Jericho said grinning, "Damn right you got on Nova's tits. Not wise to do so unless you paid for it. That mouth of yours'll probably get you killed sooner or later. I'm betting its sooner. Look girl, I been all over the Wastes, and I can tell you this. When you've slept among the corpses of your enemies so long you can smell to an hour how fresh they are, when you've pumped that much jet and psycho the shakes are rattling your teeth, when you've eaten Mirelurk meat so raw you can feel the rads hopping onto your tongue, then maybe, _maybe_ you can call yourself a real Wastelander. See life out here ain't like in a Vault. You do certain things to survive or you ain't gonna make it through at all. You can bet your sweet arse on that." He downed the rest of his drink, and made for the saloon door. Apprising that the show was over, most of the customers eventually followed suit.

Arta was left at the bar with only Gob for company. She glanced across to the corner table, where the man with the glasses and the old-fashioned clothing Jericho had called Mr Burke still sat alone. But now he seemed to be looking at her in some disapproval, rather like a father whose daughter has taken up with disreputable company. Blowing out a cloud of smoke that obscured his features, he turned his face away.

Polishing a glass, Gob ventured, "You oughta be careful of Mr Jericho, Miss Arta. Miss Nova tells me he used to be a Raider." Looking at her sidelong, he added, "Nova's all right. If you're nice to her, she's nice to you. Well, mostly."

Arta said, "I'm sorry, Gob. I guess I shouldn't have upset her. I can tell you really like her." Gob put a hand to his cheek in embarrassment, dislodging a flake of flesh. Arta did her best to pretend she hadn't noticed. She asked, "What are Raiders?"

Gob shook his head. "Bad people," he said.

* * *

_I've spent so much of my life without meeting anyone new. Yet for the moment, I'm glad to be left alone, or at least alone apart from this ghoul. However exciting socialising can be, I need time by myself, space to reflect on things. To consider what's happened, and what to do next. It seems like I'm no closer to achieving any of my goals._

Arta looked up, and saw Nova leaning on the balustrade of the upper level. When she saw she had Arta's attention, Nova placed a finger over her lips. Then she lowered the finger and crooked it in Arta's direction.

Gob muttered, "See ya, Miss Arta," and made no further comment.

Nova met her at the top of the stairs, and immediately took her hand firmly. Arta thought she could sense a barely perceptible tension in the grip of her fingers, and in the stillness of her face. Without speaking, the older woman led her to a door right of the stairs, which she unlocked. She drew Arta inside, and re-locked it.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a large bed as the main feature. Nova sat on it, and invited Arta to do the same.

_What does she want of me? _Arta sniffed the air. The odour was unmistakable. _Does she want me … does she want us to …?_

Nova continued to hold Arta's hand, and look closely into her eyes. And Arta suddenly realised: Nova was _afraid_.

Suddenly she began to speak. "Most people don't get to see this room without paying a lot of caps for the privilege. I've brought you here because it's the most private I can get without attracting attention. Not for the usual reason, you understand?" Arta nodded.

Nova continued: "I gather from what you've said that you're looking for some way to get clean food and drink. Well, you were right. There's a way to get things like that, but it involves having lots of money and influence. I can get you those, but only if you help me in return. Are you interested?"

Arta said, "Go on, I'm listening."

"Before I say anything more, I need to know whether you're able and willing to use that gun you carry. I assume it's not just for show?"

"I've used it. I've used it to shoot _at _people and things."

"Very well. What I want you to do is shoot and kill my employer, Colin Moriarty."

* * *

Once again I have to take issue with the Wiki dates, mostly with Jericho's which makes him about sixty. He ain't _that _much a veteran. Nova also seems like Silver in being more on the mature side than Wiki suggests (its the voice, and it _is _an amazingly sexy one).

Another interesting point is how familiar the citizens of Megaton might be with Vault escapees. Supposedly 101 was closed for at least the last twenty years, although I wouldn't even take that at face value. I mean how hard was it for a teenager to escape, even while security was actively searching for her? How much easier would it be for someone in authority (like James)? And wouldn't it be quite possible to 'fake' the death of such an escapee so no one noticed? (Perhaps a horrific accident with Andy's flamethrower).

Apart from that, there could be other Vaults which for some reason weren't listed (or had been erased) from the database in Vault Tec HQ, with a similar regime to 101. And Megaton would probably be a magnet for anyone trying to get out, as one of the safer places in the Wasteland.

Oh, and thanks to bbbb8484 for spotting my name typo, now corrected. Its the sort of thing that can slip through the net.


	11. Black Widow

Ch 11 Black Widow

Nova held her breath, and watched the woman from the Vault closely. This was a terrific gamble, and relied on what Arta had _not _heard. _Maybe Silver was right after all, _she thought. _I am a bitch. Yet what choice do I have?_

The woman put one hand to her cheek, as though musing. _She looks so lost. What must it be like for her to be away from everything she's known up to now? To not know who to trust in a world she doesn't yet understand? There's no maybe, I'm a bitch and I hate myself and what I'm doing. But not as much as I hate Moriarty._

Arta tilted her head first one way, then the other, as though to look at Nova and the problem from all angles, her blue-grey eyes thoughtful.

Unexpectedly she asked. "Why did you choose to … live this kind of life?"

Nova was slightly thrown by the question, and exhaled abruptly. She tried to quickly regain her poise. "Choose? I didn't have much choice. When I was brought to Megaton, I had nothing. No money to buy a house like that rich bitch, Lucy West. Raiders had taken it all. I couldn't trade or fight or scavenge, so I sold the one thing I still owned. My body."

Arta nodded, as though she understood. Then she said, "And that's why you hate Moriarty and want him killed, is it? Because you offered your honour in trade, and he accepted the bargain?"

"No! I hate him because he's a sadistic bully and a …" Nova stopped herself. She'd almost said too much in anger.

"And?"

"I told you already. A mean, spiteful slave driver who enjoys making the lives of everyone around him miserable. If anyone deserves to die, he does."

"Yes, but you were about to say something else, weren't you?" Arta had switched her unfocused gaze to look directly into Nova's eyes. Nova met her searching glance steadily, although her heart was beating faster. This young woman might be out of her element, but she was no fool.

Arta allowed the question to go unanswered, "Why don't you just leave?"

"Because …" Nova realised she'd been trapped. The situation was slipping out of her control. She might as well respond with the truth. "Because I'm afraid of him."

"Afraid he'll hunt you down?"

"Yes."

"Killing him yourself is out of the question?"

"I can't do that." Nova felt with her foot for the gun under the bed, wished she could have found a better hiding place. She wouldn't be able to reach it without drawing suspicion. Not unless …

"And you chose me, of all people, to make this offer to."

A statement, not a question. _She already knows why. I'm in great danger. I must reach that damn gun!_

In a harder tone, Arta continued, "Before I came here, I found a small shack. In it, I met a woman called Silver." Nova caught her breath again. "She used to work for Moriarty, and was running away from him. At first she was afraid that he'd sent me to get her."

_The game's almost up. _Nova said, "He treated her mean too, but she was always a liar and a thief."

Arta nodded. "She certainly was. But I believed at least one thing she said: that she had contacts with the slavers. Because she was planning on selling me to them. And she said that even slavers wouldn't touch Moriarty. He was too powerful, too dangerous." Her eyes were cold. "You _bitch!"_

Nova bowed her head. "I'm sorry, I couldn't take it anymore. I thought …"

"You thought I was a stupid, naïve dupe, who wouldn't know enough to fear the consequences. And that Moriarty would underestimate me too, would probably let his guard down. No doubt you were going to be there, to finish off whoever came away worst." Nova looked up, to see that Arta was pointing a semi-automatic pistol at her head. "Well, I've gotten a lot smarter real quick. Stand up!" Resignedly, Nova got to her feet. "Keep your hands where I can see them. Now start taking your clothes off."

Without protest, Nova removed her light, pale blue topcoat and boots, standing in just a white chemise and stockings. _I know I look good; these really are about the sexiest, most expensive smalls you can get. Pity the stockings have become so threadbare._

She was about to remove her chemise, when Arta said, "That's enough! Stand still." Nova waited, breathing hard. Despite the danger, or perhaps _because_ of it, she felt turned on. _I can still swing this in my favour! She wants me - I know it!_

Arta carried out a quick search of Nova's outer garments, finding the stiletto she kept in her boot top. "How nice! Just what I'd expect from a dirty, treacherous bitch!" Nova merely rolled her eyes.

Pocketing the knife, and moving closer, Arta began running her hands over Nova's underwear, and through her hair, looking for any further concealed weapons. _You won't find any, but you're making me feel so hot! _

Nova murmured, "You've had a sample of the goods, why don't you enjoy them for free?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." Nova took hold of Arta's cheeks, and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. She continued to kiss her fervently, allowing her no time to pull away or resist. At first she felt Arta's body tense up, then it gradually relaxed against her own, as she ground with her hips and pressed closely with her breasts. _I've got her! _

Once she felt sure the younger woman was under her spell, Nova quickly slipped off her chemise, then drew Arta's head downward towards her breasts. She soon felt the gentle tug of Arta's mouth on her nipple, as she might have imagined a baby would suckle, although she had never experienced such a thing. She felt a moment's pity for her victim, sensing her desperate need for comfort. She allowed Arta to keep feasting on her breasts, feeling her own nipples' hardness, and a growing sensation of triumph, of sexual euphoria at her supremacy. This was a victory as satisfying and much sweeter than could be achieved with weapons, and she was going to savour every moment of it. And in the end her opponent would be totally defeated.

Nova began to help Arta to remove her clothing, tugging at her zippers, although she scarcely needed any encouragement as she was already stripping off as fast as she could. Nova was sure that once Arta's body was exposed to her gaze and touch, she would be utterly helpless to resist her sexual enslavement. When Arta was finally nude, Nova fell on her like a lioness about to devour her prey, her mouth and tongue hungrily seeking for vulnerable flesh, her fingers probing to give pleasure, to find points of weakness.

* * *

Arta allowed Nova to pull her down onto the bed. _This is so reckless! But I don't care! It's lovely! I've needed this so much! To give myself over to someone's touch, to immerse myself in sensations of ravishment._

From below, she could feel Nova snaking out an arm to reach between her thighs, teasing at her womb entrance. Abruptly Nova rolled, so that she was on top, kissing Arta on the mouth, the breasts, the belly, all the while stroking at the inner folds of her flesh. Then Nova's fingers spread her labia, and Arta felt the feather softness of her tongue, and it was all that was needed to send her finally over the edge into hot waves of orgasmic ecstasy_._

_She could kill me now, and I would thank her for it! Would still cling on to the last dying pulse of pleasure, the final gasp of release._

As the outer ripples of the explosion faded, she reached a point of stillness within the storm. The moment had passed and her mind was her own again. She felt Nova moving forward again, positioning herself above her, her thighs blocking out the light. Sensed the urgency with which she sought to reach for her own climax. And she answered the need, hearing Nova moan and thrash in response, her body temporarily in submission to the will she had lately held in thrall. And when it was over, and Nova had bucked one last time, Arta reached up to clasp her fingers between her own, and she encountered instead hard metal.

Instantly she reacted, twisting Nova's wrist outwards, and there was the muffled cough of a suppressed discharge. The bullet sped away to bury itself in the wall, and the gun dropped from Nova's hand. Nova tried to clamp down with her thighs on Arta's face, but she was already using her greater strength to roll the older woman off the bed and onto the floor. Pinned down and stunned, Nova immediately went limp with defeat. Arta picked up the silenced pistol, and pressed it to her temple.

"So it was under the bed. Stupid of me not to look. You could've shot me while you were making me come, but you didn't. You needed me one last time."

Nova laid her head back wearily. "Caught in my own web, how ironic! I suppose you're going to shoot me now, but for the record, I wouldn't have killed you, even afterwards. I only wanted to get back control."

"I believe you, but it scarcely matters, does it? We both know my life came a long way second to your revenge on Moriarty."

"Second, but not by a long way." Nova closed her eyes. "Go on, please, get it over with."

Arta maintained the pressure of the pistol a moment longer, then withdrew it. She got to her feet.

"I've not killed anyone yet, not unless you count Silver. I don't aim to make this the first time." _And there's all kinds of reasons not to._

Nova opened her eyes, looking astonished. She said, "Thank you."

"Thank Gob, he put in a good word for you. You had your reasons, and I don't think you're an evil person, just desperate."

Nova sat up, and clasped her knees. "Then why do I feel so ashamed?" She looked sadly up at Arta. "What happened to Silver?"

"Thanks to me, Raiders got her." Arta applied the safety to the silenced pistol. "I'm keeping this. But in case I've misjudged you, you'd do well to remember Silver. I've already given over one whore to torture and death. Don't make me add another."

* * *

As Arta descended the stairs, she noticed the young blonde woman who'd been talking with Nova had resumed her place at a table near the door, and was watching her with undisguised interest. Despite this, Arta would have preferred to ignore her and leave _Moriarty's_ had the woman not spoken first.

"Hi, I'm Lucy West. I saw you earlier talking to Nova and Jericho. You seem like you can really handle yourself."

"Err, thanks!" Disconcerted and emotionally exhausted by the encounter with Nova, Arta was unable to think of a better response.

Motioning Arta to come closer, Lucy dropped her voice confidentially. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" Taking Arta's consent for granted, she continued, almost in a whisper. "As a woman, are you interested in … visiting someone like Nova? I mean, I'm just curious to know."

Arta was at first even more discomfited by Lucy's rather prurient enquiry. Eventually she decided that though it was intrusive, and somewhat cheeky, it had its amusing aspects.

She replied, "I guess I wouldn't totally rule it out, but at the moment I can't afford to." Thinking that Lucy deserved to be teased in her turn, she asked, "Were you considering a visit yourself?"

"Me, no! Really I'm not into that sort of thing!" Lucy replied in a shocked whisper. "I … I'm a respectable householder in Megaton, and I have my reputation to uphold."

_Sure you do, but you still enjoy listening to, and probably spreading salacious gossip! _Remembering her own need for accommodation, she resolved to explore the possibility of forming some sort of connection with Lucy. She said, "I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were a resident." Then in the friendliest tone she could manage, "This is my first time in Megaton, and I haven't had a chance to see what kind of housing you have, at least not inside. I wonder, would you perhaps do me the honour of showing me round your house some time?"

"Well." Lucy looked as though she was flattered by Arta's interest. "I mean, it's just my humble abode and all but, why not? I was planning to have lunch soon, so why don't you join me?"

When they got outside, the sun had moved close to being directly overhead, and the heat reflected from the corrugated iron structures and striking up from the crater was baking. Unused to such high temperatures, Arta unzipped her Tunnel snakes jacket, no longer so concerned about revealing her Vault suit. Lucy showed no sign of being bothered by the heat, though her leather outfit was longer and heavier looking. She didn't wear a hat, but Arta observed that some Wastelanders, particularly those with a much-travelled look, had broad brimmed ones, often combined with sun scarves, and she determined to see about buying something similar.

Lucy's house was some distance away on a lower tier, and by the time they arrived, Arta was somewhat hungry and thirsty. She was still interested to see the kind of home Megaton provided for its regular citizens. Lucy gave her the 'tour' with every appearance of pride. Like _Moriarty's, _the house had two levels, and though it was far smaller, the amount of space provided was generous by Vault standards. The ground floor had similar furnishings to Silver's shack, and while it also showed much wear and tear, everything seemed cleaner and tidier. Arta particularly noticed there were two beds upstairs.

She asked, "Do you live here with someone else?

"No." Lucy looked a little downcast. "The idea was that I would move here with my brother, Ian. Our family lives in the small settlement of Arefu to the north-west, on one of the bridges over the Potomac. We trade with the caravans, and my dad had this idea of moving part of the business to Megaton. So he sent me here with enough caps to buy a property. Ian was supposed to come too, but he … he was _unwell_. So I came on my own, and so far no one's joined me. In fact, it's been a while since I've heard anything, and I'm getting worried because I need more money to start trading. Hey, but you don't want to listen to my problems all day!"

Arta didn't, but scented an opportunity. "Why don't you travel back to Arefu and find out what's wrong? You could leave someone to look after your house. In fact, I could probably find the time myself."

Lucy gave her a cynical look. "Yeah, I'm sure that'd be convenient from your point of view! But not from mine. It's too dangerous for someone like me unless I travel with a caravan like I did before. But they only circulate in one direction. Don't ask me why. So I'd have to follow the entire route, right down to Rivet City in the south, north through the centre of DC, then west towards Paradise Falls. Excuse me, but I'll pass on that." She shrugged. "You ever want to start a caravan, my advice is, try travelling clockwise! C'mon, let's eat."

With hunger pangs beginning to strike, Arta realised she had no choice in the short term except to eat irradiated food, even though she was determined to find some alternative in future. She thought she might as well make the best of it, and was intrigued to find Lucy's midday meal consisted of some pieces of meat stuck on skewers. Eating real meat had a legendary status in Vault society; only in the pre-war period had such a thing been known. Arta had heard her father joke about eating radroaches, but such an idea was so disgusting no Vault dweller would seriously contemplate it. However consuming the bodies of dead animals was also a little daunting.

Seeing her hesitation, Lucy said, "It's squirrel, prepared in my own special way. Really tasty!"

Remembering her Natural History lessons, Arta said doubtfully, "I thought squirrels lived in trees. I haven't seen any yet."

"Huh? How would they do that? Trees are like … dead. Of course, squirrels have always lived in holes in the ground. Here, try some." Lucy pulled one of the pieces off a skewer, and leaned forward across the table to pop it into Arta's mouth. The flavour was certainly unusual, and the chewiness surprising. Arta decided it was greatly preferable to algae, and tried to ignore the disapproving clicking coming from her pipboy.

She imitated Lucy, bringing the stick to her mouth to bite into the succulent pieces. At the same time, she watched the blonde woman with increasing interest. She had clear blue eyes and a delicate mouth. The way her hair was pulled tightly back from her face, and elaborately knotted, a style Amata had favoured, was certainly attractive, and she also resembled the Overseer's daughter in her cultured style of speech and air of superiority. Her dad would probably have called her a 'spoilt princess'.

The thought was saddening, and made her think of how manipulative Amata had been, and how much her father would've disapproved. Yet she had told him herself that certain things needed to take precedence over morality in difficult times. Would manipulating Lucy be such a bad thing to do? Could she be seduced into letting Arta share her house at least until her family arrived? Nova had made such a thing look easy, and Lucy had shown some curiosity about her sexual activities, despite her protests of respectability.

Arta finished eating, and put her finger in her mouth to lick it clean slowly and suggestively. Lucy appeared not to notice. She poured a beer into two glasses and raised one of them "To the beginning of a beautiful friendship?" she suggested.

"And to a long and happy stay in Megaton." Arta added, clinking glasses.

"Yeah, absolutely! Well, its time for my afternoon nap, so after this drink I'd better let you get about your business."

_Damn! Oh, well, maybe later._

_

* * *

_

Arta peered through the dimness of _Craterside Supply. _A sullen-eyed mercenary in leather armour gave her a suspicious glance, then chewed and spat. Where was its supposedly eccentric owner?

"Hang on there!" A woman's voice came from behind the large counter. "Just let me fix this up, and I'll be with you in two shakes!"

Arta waited, meanwhile marvelling at the well-stocked shelves, some containing weapons and armour, some only odds and ends, and noticing with astonishment that there was a Vault suit hanging on the wall. Eventually she became impatient, and walked over to look behind the counter. A woman was kneeling tinkering with what looked like an old-fashioned pump-style detonator, and occasionally muttering to herself. A lead snaked away across the shop, ending up at a strange gun-like device. It appeared to have been fashioned out of pieces of junk, including perhaps a vacuum cleaner and a length of hosing.

Becoming aware of Arta's presence, the woman hastily stood up. "Oh, almost forgot you were there! Its always nice to see a new customer, I'm Moira Brown!" She spoke in overly bright, somewhat goofy tones. Her hair was dyed red and tied back, the pupils of her eyes were round as saucers, and her expression was one of genial amiability. She wore an old jumpsuit faded to a pale blue.

_At least she looks like a harmless eccentric, _Arta thought. She said, "Nice to meet you, Moira. I came to buy supplies, but if you're busy I can always come back in a while."

"Oh, no need for that!" Moira beamed enthusiastically. "I _do _have some vital research to perform from time to time, but I usually find I can fit it in while minding the store. My customers are very important to me; after all they fund my projects." Her eyes seemed to almost bug out of their sockets. "In fact, I could use some help right now with an experimental weapon I'm about to test."

Arta hastily took a step backwards. "Well, that sounds very interesting, Moira, but err, perhaps it would be better if you used someone with greater military experience." She waved an arm vaguely in the mercenary's direction.

"Oh, _him_, he's only here to stop people stealing and causing trouble, though you wouldn't think anyone would want to hurt little old me, would you? If I ask him to do anything else, he says it's not in his contract." Moria sniffed. "But I'm getting this intuition that you have a natural aptitude and enthusiasm for research."

"I wouldn't exactly say that …"

"Now see I'm going to give you the easy part to do this time. All I need is for you to pump this detonator when I give you the word. I'll observe the weapon firing, and you'll be safely behind the counter. What can go wrong?" Moira giggled. "I call it the Rock-It-Launcher. Isn't that funny? It fires any kind of household garbage with lethal force." Seeing that Arta looked unconvinced, Moira added, "I'll give you a free sample as a reward for your assistance."

Arta sighed. "Very well. I suppose the counter looks pretty good cover, and if it's only garbage …"

"That's the spirit! First I have to set up this dummy target." Moira arranged a large cardboard cut-out of a fearsome-looking ogre-like creature in the centre of the room. Then she put on some goggles and stuck an ancient looking white helmet firmly on her head. "Just in case! Are we all ready?"

The mercenary took cover behind the door to the stairs. Arta crouched behind the counter, holding the detonator. Moira took up a position about a body's length away and to one side of the Rock-It-Launcher.

"Ready! Fire!"

Arta pushed down on the detonator and shut her eyes. Nothing happened. She opened her eyes, then stood up. The mercenary was also standing looking very relieved.

Moira was muttering, "Maybe a loose wire …" She went over and began to fiddle with the back of the Rock-It-Launcher. "Now if I …"

There was a tremendous explosion. Arta threw herself down behind the counter as fragments of metal showered across the room. She hugged the floor desperately. A cloud of black smoke drifted overhead, then sank towards floor level.

Coughing Arta regained her feet. The mercenary was doing the same on the opposite side of the room. As the smoke cleared, it could be seen that both target and Rock-It-Launcher were almost completely destroyed. Moira was still standing behind the weapon, her hands and face smoke blackened, but otherwise looking totally unharmed.

"He-hmm." Moira coughed, pushing up her goggles to better inspect the wreckage. She looked a little downcast, then brightened. "That could've gone better, but the junk was propelled in the right general direction." She walked over to pick up a battered looking teddy bear. "So a few adjustments are needed, but on the whole it was a success."

Arta shook her head to try to stop the ringing in her ears. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear! Your reward!" She handed Arta the teddy bear. "A souvenir of your first experiment!"

"Gee, thanks!"

"Don't mention it!" Observing Arta more closely, she said cheerfully, "Aren't you one of those strays from the Vault? I haven't seen one of you for years!"

Arta nodded dumbly.

"Okay then! Let's see what we can trade!"

* * *

"Well now …" Moira surveyed the items placed in front of her. "We have … a box of Abraxo cleaner, handy for the floors, a bottle of turpentine, always useful, a bonesaw and hammer …" she made appropriate sawing and hammering movements, "oh, and an old camera without a film." She held it up to take an imaginary picture, and clicked her tongue. "Say cheese! A bottle of … " she wrinkled her nose "rather dirty water, and last but not least, a whole tube of Wonderglue. Super! Totting that up, making a few little allowances and deducting trading percentages, we get … a grand total of thirty nine caps! After all your help today, let's call that a round forty, shall we?"

"Forty caps?" Arta examined the price list Moira had displayed on her computer, and looked glum. "I won't be able to buy much in the way of weapons and armour at these prices. Except perhaps …" she held up the items disdainfully "this rather dented pair of brass knuckles."

"Oh, I wouldn't sniff too much at those, my dear. I got them from a scavenger who said he'd used them to batter a Supermutant to death. Of course first he'd shot one or both its legs off. I forget exactly which."

Arta let fall the knuckle-dusters. "Maybe not today. Just the …" she consulted the list … "_Stormchaser _hat, please."

"An excellent choice! Many wanderers have remarked on the mystical properties of this hat, saying it gives them almost an extra sense." Moira beamed. "Strange really, because you'd think it'd make things harder to see, what with all the cloth hanging from the brim and all. Still may it bring you luck! And that leaves you … thirty one caps."

Arta placed the remaining currency in a bag, all the while thinking grimly of the hundreds of caps Silver had been carrying. She tried on the hat which felt like … a normal hat. She looked up again at the Vault suit on the wall. It seemed different in some way.

She asked Moira, "How come you have a Vault suit, and what have you done to it?"

"You like, eh? It belonged to a Vault girl very like you. I was worried she might come to harm in the Wastes, so I offered to armour her suit. It'll stop low powered rounds completely, while being flexible enough to allow ease of firing. You see that's exactly the sort of thing my R&D aims to achieve." Moira shook her head. "The poor thing never came back to collect it! Probably died out there!"

"How much?"

Moira whistled through her teeth. "Sorry, dear, I'd like to help you out, but you haven't got nearly enough. It's in perfect condition, you see, and that spells expensive."

Reluctantly Arta brought out her own pistol, and the one she'd taken from Nova. "Take a look at these."

Moira checked over the weapons in expert fashion. "This one is in almost A1 condition. One hundred and ten caps. The silenced pistol, while its unusual, isn't nearly so well kept. Let's say eighty." She scratched her nose. "I could do you a deal. I'll take both, plus twenty caps, in return for the suit."

_When it comes to hard bargaining, she shows no sign of goof ball behaviour. _Arta said, "I need to keep at least one weapon for protection."

"I'll throw in the knuckles for free."

"No thank you."

Moira shrugged. "Okay then."

Arta was about to leave in disappointment. Then, remembering what Jericho had said, she asked, "Do you by any chance know where I might obtain clean food and water, free from radiation?"

Moira sucked on her teeth. "Well I hear things from time to time. Rumours of lost paradises and so on. You see I'm also writing a book called the Wasteland Survival Guide; the title says it all really. But none of my field researchers have been able to find anything definite." Observing Arta slump again, she said brightly, "Oh, but don't lose heart! Maybe _you'll _be the one to discover something! In fact, I could employ you to find out this very thing. I've heard about an old Super Dupa Mart not very far to the north, on this side of the Potomac. Quite possibly there could be food, water, even drugs there, not to mention other useful items. Take a look for me, bring back some samples, I'll pay you well."

Arta asked doubtfully, "How much pay? And will it be dangerous?"

Moira's round eyes looked innocent. "Dangerous? No more than anywhere these days! And you can be there and back in a jiffy. As for pay, you wanted that Vault Armoured Suit? Succeed and it's yours. And, of course, you can keep any clean food and water you find, once you've shown it to me."

Arta considered. Somehow this seemed far too easy, and she'd already figured that Moira's eccentricity didn't extend to the way she did business. She wouldn't offer someone such a large incentive to perform a simple task. And Jericho had warned her about taking up on Moira's "moonshine" missions.

On the other hand, could she really pass up on such an opportunity? Apart from the chance of finding the holy grail of clean food and water, she needed to start earning caps before she either starved to death or died of radiation sickness. To do that she required better equipment and things to trade.

She said, "Okay, that sounds like a fair offer."

Moira gave her the sunniest of smiles. "Naturally, dear, I wouldn't suggest anything else!"

* * *

Sauntering abstractedly back to Lucy West's house, Arta came across Jericho, sunning himself on his terrace and drawing on a smoke.

"Hey, Vaultee! Found any fancy food and drink yet?"

Arta bridled at his jeering tone, then reminded herself she needed all the advice she could get, even from such a rude source. She told him about Moira's assignment.

He gave a short laugh. "Sure, dream on! Kid, think about it. This place is close to Megaton. I know it myself, though I've not been inside. How likely is it to have gone untouched all this time? Anything that's there now has probably been left by someone, and that means its gonna be guarded. So either it's a wasted trip or you're about to buy yourself a whole heap of trouble. And you're still totally wet behind the ears."

Defiantly Arta said, "I can handle myself! I've got a gun, and I can shoot."

Jericho gave a huge guffaw. "You can shoot, can you? Well, here's a little wager for you. Stand by the table, draw your weapon and shoot through that knothole in my shack, before I count to three and snap my fingers. One chance, one shot. Fifty caps says you can't."

"I don't have fifty caps."

"Then I'll bet whatever you do have."

Arta gauged the distance to the 'knothole'. It was approximately the same length away as the paper target she'd used in the Vault to practice. She'd been able to hit the bull's eye most of the time, but this was somewhat smaller, and she only had one shot. On the other hand, she stood to double her money, which was already inadequate for her needs. More than that, she would throw Jericho's abuse, and his mocking and belittling of her right back in his face. She remembered the contemptuous way he'd shoved her aside, and her jaw tightened.

"Alright! You're on! For thirty one caps!"

"So, we have a sportswoman, do we? Good! I like to see that. But I'm gonna enjoy watching you count out your caps for me even more."

"I won't need to. You'll be the one who's forking out!"

"We'll see, won't we? Remember you gotta shoot before I snap my fingers or you lose. Now get ready!"

Arta took up a stance facing the target, hand close to her holster. She felt the same calmness descend over her as when she'd turned to face the Mole Rats. It was the part of her soul which told her that survival depended on her remaining steady, on shooting straight. And she was determined she would do just that. Perhaps she was becoming more like Amata in remaining calm and detached.

She heard Jericho count, "One!" and drew the pistol, thumbing off the safety.

As he counted, "Two!" she was lining up the shot, the pistol held double-handed and rock steady. She could see the hole perfectly aligned with her gun sight.

She squeezed the trigger.

A single report was followed by several rattles and whines, as the bullet ricocheted around the inside of Jericho's shack. There was a noise of shattering glass, then silence.

Arta turned to look at Jericho. He was sitting with his hand raised, finger and thumb touching, and his mouth slightly open, like a pupil half-heartedly trying to attract his teacher's attention. As though suddenly realising the lack of dignity in this position, he shook his head and blinked.

"Who fired off a gun?"

Arta looked up to see an old woman in a drab robe, white hair tightly tied back in a bun, waving agitatedly in their direction from a nearby terrace. Her skin was incredibly wrinkled and browned by the sun, and she was somewhat stooped with her years.

"It ain't nuthin', Manya," Jericho shouted back. "Arta here was trying a little target practice. Shooting a knothole."

"Well a pretty pair you are, scaring me half to death at my age!"

"What the hell's going on up there?" The deep boom of Sheriff Simms' voice came from below.

"Nobody hurt." Manya threw up her hands in exasperation. "Just a couple of fools peckin' at knotholes."

"Well, that's good to know." Simms reslung his rifle. "Didn't want to waste bullets on your sorry hide, Artemesia."

As Simms resumed his patrol and Manya hobbled off, Arta re-holstered her pistol and turned triumphantly to face Jericho, determined to make the most of her moment of glory.

"Right through the knothole, without touching!"

"Sure, kid, that was pretty slick," Jericho conceded. "One in a million."

"Are you saying it was luck? Fancy I try again for double the stakes?"

"Heh, heh, no! That wasn't luck. Had a merc try it coupla months ago, totally messed up. Lazy bastards rely on pumpin' lots of rounds these days, no proper training. Won me twenty five caps. I would've wagered double that on you missing if you'd had it, but it don't matter, as no money's gonna change hands."

For a moment, his words didn't register, then Arta shouted, "_What?_"

Jericho leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Just consider it a lesson learned, kid. Don't expect no-one to pay up unless you got the means to make 'em."

"You dirty, double-crossing bastard, pay me my money!" Arta felt a red mist descend. "I'm warning you!"

"And I'm telling you to fuck off!"

Spitting, Arta went for his face with her fingernails. Before she could get quite close enough, Jericho sprang out of his chair, and grabbed hold of her arms, then swung her against the side of the shack, pinioning her hands against the wall. She struggled, and he unceremoniously took the air out of her lungs by kneeing her in the stomach.

"Think you're one of those zombies, now, do ya? Your claws aren't big enough, girlie." His grip was like iron, and he was pressed against her, his face uncomfortably close, but she was gasping too much to spit in it. She could smell his sweat, and the beer on his breath, as he hissed, "You're damn lucky I'm not the man I was in the Wastes, or you'd get a real lesson not to cross me. Try anything like that again, and you will."

"Fuck you!" she just about managed.

"Mind your manners, and get out of my face." He swung her again, and this time thrust her away from him, so that she toppled over.

"Shitty bastard!" she snarled from the floor.

Resuming his seat, Jericho growled back, "I ain't changed my opinion. You're still a clean-arse. You go to that mart, you're dead meat!"

Getting to her feet, and giving him murderous backward looks, she staggered down the ramp to Lucy's house. She wasn't in. Arta stopped to ponder.

_He may be a shitty bastard, but what he said made sense, and reflected my own fears. If there's some other way to avoid this, I've got to at least try it._

_

* * *

_

"My dear girl, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance! It's so rare in this heap of rubble that one encounters persons of refinement."

Arta gave Burke a winning smile. She said, "I'm guessing you come from some place a lot more … refined than here."

"As clearly do you, my _dear _girl." Burke began to roll himself a cigar. His pre-war clothes, including his fedora hat, shirt, tie and trousers were immaculately cared for, but he wore them with a casual air that suggested he didn't need to try too hard to impress anyone. His chin was somewhat stubbly, and tinted lenses obscured his eyes both in colour and aspect. "While I find your company enchanting, I wonder why you've chosen to favour me with it?"

Arta was taken aback by how quickly Burke had come down to business. She began tentatively, "You see I'm looking for somewhere to stay …"

"And naturally you'd rather not bed down in this radioactive pile. I understand." Burke lit the cigar, placed it in the corner of his mouth. Through slightly clenched teeth, he added, "Pray, continue."

"… Until I get my bearings, and can start looking for some regular employment." Burke nodded, and smiled. "And I wondered if you knew anywhere I could …"

"Of course, of course." Burke sucked reflectively on the cigar, took it from his mouth, flicked it and placed it carefully on the side of an ashtray. "Such things can be arranged. However … " he gave Arta a sharp glance from behind his horn rimmed glasses "My employer is not in the habit of granting favours without some form of … recompense. In your case, I have a particular assignment in mind, should you be competent to perform it."

Arta had known something like this was coming. She decided not to beat about the bush.

"What do you want me to do?" She held her breath.

"I must first assess your suitability." Watching her closely he asked. "Assuming I were to provide you with a safe place to stay, clean food and water, a few … luxuries perhaps. What would you be_ prepared _to do?"

Arta didn't like the open-ended nature of the question. "Well … I'd be very grateful and I'd do … a lot. As long as …" she added quickly, "there's a reasonable chance of me surviving to collect my reward."

Burke gave a simper. "Oh, I wouldn't worry yourself too much on that score! Now, let us speak hypothetically. Suppose I set you a task that required you to kill someone, perhaps a number of people, of no real importance to anyone other than themselves. Would you be … interested?" He delicately picked up his cigar, leaned back and took a long puff on it, smiling with every appearance of enjoyment.

Arta swallowed. She said carefully, "It would depend, I suppose, if they were … good or bad people."

Burke continued smiling, nodded a few times slowly. "Yes, of course, it would _depend_." He took another shorter puff, again returned the cigar to its resting place. "I see that you are not quite ready for me. I will allow you a little time to … ah … sample the delights of this locality. If then you feel you are prepared to give me another less _conditional_ answer, well … " He gestured casually. "I will still be here."

"Wait." Arta spoke hastily. In her mind's eye she could see herself in a clean room, with pure running water and a soft comfortable bed. Desperately she cast her mind back to when she and Amata had managed to 'borrow' one of the Overseer's most precious possessions, a pre-war movie clip. The black and white film had been incomplete and shaky, but she remembered how the women in it had been so elegant, so self-possessed, so … seductive.

Ruffling back her hair, she looked directly into Burke's pale eyes, fixing him with a vacant smile. "Mr Burke." She leaned forward and allowed her hand to trail across the table towards his, all the while hating herself. She tried making her voice lower, softer, more breathy. "I don't think I made it clear, just _how _grateful I'd be for your assistance." She delicately wet her lips with her tongue.

She sensed Burke was enjoying the situation, the evident power he held over her. He allowed their hands to touch briefly, then withdrew his out of reach. Smiling a little more thinly, he said, "You are _most _charming." His tone suggested he was unimpressed with her amateur attempt to seduce him but was too polite to say so. "However my instructions from my employer are clear. He requires me to hire only persons who are one hundred percent devoted to protecting his interests. Good day."

* * *

Arta suddenly woke from a dream in which she'd gone down to the corner store to buy her father some cigarettes. Odd, because he didn't smoke. She realised in panic someone was shaking her violently. A face like old leather loomed right in front of her, surrounded by a white curling beard and hair fleecy as ram's wool. In it were set two eyes like burning coals. It appeared to her altogether demonic, and she shrank back

The demon spoke in a strange, lilting accent. "If you've no more caps to spend, then its time for you to be taking yourself out of here, girl. My generosity doesn't extend to free sleeping quarters."

Arta dizzily tried to recall the past few hours. She remembered buying drink after drink at _Moriarty's_, and then being _bought_ drink after drink. After that, everything became hazy.

She felt herself being hauled to her feet, firmly marched towards the exit and then thrust out into the night.

As she collapsed to the ground, she heard the demon say, "And so we part."

* * *

"Arta?" Lucy West asked uncertainly. "Are you alright?"

"Lushee!" Arta slurred. "Pleash, take me to bed!"

"Oh my, what a state you're in! Have you been drinking all evening?" Lucy helped Arta to her feet, then placed one of her arms over her shoulders to support her stumbling progress. "I suppose you can come back to my house just for tonight."

"Thhhank you, Lushee." Arta gave a burp. In a haze of drunken affection, she added. "You … are … my … beshtest friend. Well, Amata is my beshtest friend. But nexst to her, you are … jussh a sec, gotta be sick."

Lucy held onto her while she vomited over the railing. Then she helped her stagger down the walkway, across the centre of the crater, and up the short ramp to the shack.

Once inside, Lucy half-carried her upstairs and sat her down on one of the beds. "C'mon, let's get this jacket off you."

"Thatsh ssso very nicsh of you!" A tear ran down Arta's cheek.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Lucy put an arm around Arta, and stroked her hair comfortingly.

"A beau …ti…ful frienship … Amata, you're beauti…ful." Her mind still addled, Arta clumsily tried to kiss Lucy.

"Arta, stop please! I don't want … get away from me, you freak!" Lucy shouted, pushing Arta violently away when she refused to desist.

"Amata? Why are you being like thish? "

"I'm not Amata, and I told you I'm not into this kind of thing. There's no way you're staying here. I don't want any more of your dirty lesbianism around me. Go on, get out!"

Pushed out for a second time, Arta once again felt the hard rock of the crater under her. At first this, and the disappearing prospect of a soft bed to sleep in seemed the most significant and the most distressing of her vicissitudes. Then everything else crowded in, and the single tear was joined by many more.

"_Daddy!" _she sobbed.

* * *

*Some of the things happening in this update were unplanned, which explains its length and delayed appearance. The encounter with Nova in particular developed its own momentum, as these things often do. And the title changed several times too, though the one chosen was, in the end obvious.

If you didn't notice, the 'knothole' incident was based on the Smokehouse scene in Oklahoma. Manya doesn't have a bun but I'm pretty sure Aunt Eller did, at least in the film.

After two chapters in Megaton, I can feel the urge to get out into the Wastes again!

I understand reviewers' points about American spelling, but must point out that I'm English, and spell things appropriately. We did invent the language! Of course I try to spell foreign and dialect words authentically, but IMHO 'assholes' isn't one of them. It's just differently spelt like 'armor', and means and practically sounds the same as 'arseholes'*


	12. The Way of the Raider

Ch 12 The Way of the Raider

Jericho awoke suddenly, and from long habit reached for his customised assault rifle, preparing it to fire. But on this occasion there was no immediate threat. It wasn't difficult for him to figure out what had disturbed his semi-drunken slumber. Someone was pounding on his shack door and shouting.

"Dirty bashtard! Come out and facesh me! I'm gonna sh-shoot you, you fucker!"

He knew who it was, and could tell she was very, very drunk. That wasn't much of a surprise. Far more unexpectedly, she'd made him recall a time he'd pushed to the back of his mind, because it was easier that way …

* * *

"Come out you cowardly son of a bitch! I know you're hiding in there, you dirty old cocksucker!"

Jericho groaned and held his aching head. Beside him Kilshandra stirred and cursed, her naked breasts gelling lightly against him. He could feel the heaviness of her sleep-filled body, then the kindling of her anger at the unwelcome interruption to her rest.

Together they exchanged a look, long familiarity making speech unnecessary. _It's your turn to deal with the child. Or rather the child turned woman._

Kilshandra pulled her leather armour over her nakedness, slipped into her boots and thrust a police baton into her belt, balancing it against a combat knife. She opened the heavy door to their underground chamber, and he heard the click of it locking behind her. A deliberately placed vent conveyed the conversation outside to him.

"Get out of the way, bitch! I'm here to see my father, not his whore."

"You'd better talk to me with more respect, you little slut! Or I'll cut out that filthy tongue and nail it over my bed!"

A manic laugh. "You wouldn't dare, and we both know it."

"I am the Leader's Woman, and you owe me tribute. It is the Way."

"Well I'm his daughter, so you can take your tribute and stuff it up your arse, you old hag!" Then in a venomous hiss: "The younger women laugh at the way you cling to him so pathetically. He fucks all of them, three or four a night, while you're sleeping or away raiding. How'd you think he got me except by fornication, you dried up piece of cunt?"

Jericho winced. That must've hurt. Kilshandra was thirty-three, which in her own mind and in that of most Raiders was old indeed, especially for a female of their kind. And there was no getting round the fact he'd been less than faithful from time to time. Occasionally the attentions of the younger and juicier clan women had been too much for him to resist. But it had meant nothing, and he was fairly sure he'd never had _four _at once.

He felt a throb of affection mixed with regret at the pride in Kilshandra's voice. "I remain his Woman. After more than ten years, I alone stand by his side."

"You stand by the side of a coward!"

Jericho heard the sharp smack of palm against flesh as Kilshandra struck out. He winced again. She never just hit you, she _really _hit you. There were sounds of a confused struggle, mingled with shrieks, groans, panting and swearing. He listened tensely. Despite no longer being in the prime of youth, Kilshandra was by reputation the fiercest female warrior of the clan. He'd back her against any of the others _except _the young woman she'd chosen to pick a fight with. This could go either way.

Eventually he was relieved to hear Kilshandra's voice, interspersed with pants and slaps. "Had enough, you whining little pussy? Or must I teach you to grovel to me again?"

There was the dull thud of the baton striking tender flesh, and a muffled shriek, followed by a foul oath. "You may force me to kneel. But you know the truth of which I speak. The clan warriors call for vengeance against the scum of Bethesda who butchered Ulfric. Meanwhile that drunken old sot my father hides behind a woman's skirts. Even when he creeps from his hole, he fights like a craven from ambush, not like a leader who should be the first to attack, the last to retreat."

_She learned from me too well - and not well enough_. _I should never have taught her to read from those old books; they filled her head with crap. But it gave her the power to make others listen to her words - and that power made her dangerous..  
_

Kilshandra's voice remained firm, but Jericho noted with pain the faintest hint of doubt in it. "He has told us the time for revenge is not yet. Bethesda will be on their guard. As for the rest, our clan is the strongest and best equipped south of the river. In a hundred battles, we have never been defeated. The townsfolk rabble fear our very name, and the land is ours to plunder as we please. What do you think is the reason for this? Who is it that leads us to victory after victory?"

"Even so he makes us fight the way of a coward, not the way of a Raider."

"You are a fool. A Raider fights only to win. To crush our enemies and make them beg for a swift death."

_It was a good speech, Kilshandra. But in your heart of hearts, you didn't really buy it. You wanted to trust me, but your head was full of the same bullshit as all the others._

"He's no longer one of us, hiding in his underground cave like a sick mole rat. He might as well be dead, or one of those zombies. Do you hear me, you old fucker? I wish you were dead!"

_She was right, of course. I'd had my belly full of raiding. I was sick of the stupidity, sick of the killing, sick of the torture, sick of the Wastes. But I couldn't leave then. Not while Kilshandra lived. And my daughter? She was gone already. If we'd even been able to talk like we were a family … but what the hell was I supposed to do? How could I stop her turning into another psycho? She lived with them!_

_

* * *

_

"Come out!" The door was given a final, furious wrench that almost pulled it off its hinges. Then, after a pause, there was the sound of weeping.

Jericho sighed. He walked to the door, and unlocked it. Arta was sitting on the ground, facing away, head down and shoulders slumped.

"Hey, kid!" She would not turn round, and he tried to keep the usual growl out of his voice. "You need a bed for the night?"

"Fuck off!"

Fighting down the urge to retort, he said, "I meant just to sleep, okay? I'm gonna be outside. Gotta do my watch duty like a good boy. You can sleep here on your own, all night and all day if you like, I don't care."

She peeped cautiously over her shoulder. "I can?"

"Yeah." Jericho felt faintly embarrassed.

"You promise?"

This was getting stupid, but he said, "I promise."

She got to her feet, walked over to the shack and regarded it critically. "It's filthy and it stinks."

"Yeah, it certainly is and it does. Just like it's owner. I ain't about to change and I ain't about to spring clean. Do you want to sleep here or not? Fine with me either way."

Arta narrowed her eyes to stare at Jericho. Then she said, "Alright, I will."

"Then good night, and don't let the radroaches bite your leg off."

* * *

Arta awoke, mouth dry and head throbbing, the morning sunshine streaming through holes in the otherwise windowless walls making her eyes ache. She wrinkled her nose against the odour, gulped down some of her remaining purified water and then decided to take the easy option to go back to sleep.

The next time consciousness returned, the sun's rays were penetrating through the roof almost directly overhead. She felt much better, refreshed and rested. Even the room seemed moderately less fetid, smelling more of smoke and less of sweat. She stared at the ceiling for a minute, then swung her legs down off the bed.

She started. Jericho was sitting on a scuffed chair opposite, dragging on a cigarette, watching her expressionlessly.

For a while the only sound was his inhalation and exhalation. She returned his glance evenly, examining him closely for the first time. He was certainly not good looking in any usual sense of the word. His eyes were narrow and squinting, his skin roughened, his balding head egg-shaped, his facial hair coarse and thick. But there was something about his ruggedness, his strength, his confidence that made most of the men she'd known throughout her life seem like mere pretenders to masculinity. _Even if he's an arsehole, at least he's the real deal._

For the first time in his presence she felt neither embarrassed or defensive or angry. And that made her uncertain what to say.

Jericho eventually broke the long silence. "Feeling any better?"

"Yes, thank you." She could offer nothing else. This seemed like a different Jericho. One who had peeled away a layer of his hard shell of cynicism and wise cracks to show her some humanity. She didn't know where she was with him.

Jericho took a drag at his cigarette and observed, "You were really out of it last night, kid."

"I was drunk."

"Completely rat-arsed." Jericho gave a short laugh, and this return to something like his normal behaviour paradoxically reassured Arta.

"Well, I guess I haven't had as much practice as you."

"Heh, heh! There's not many that have. You got plenty of time to catch up though. Fancy a beer now?"

Arta shook her head. "I'll pass. I need something to eat, and then I've got a lot to do later that I need my head clear for."

Jericho squinted up his eyes even more. "You still bent on killing yourself in that Supa Dupa Death Trap?"

"I intend to go there, yes. I hope not to die."

He puffed thoughtfully on his smoke, then regarded her again. "Can you use a rifle?"

Arta considered, then shrugged. "I fired them in simulation plenty of times. I got very high scores."

"Nar, that ain't good enough. You gotta feel it's weight, it's recoil. You're pretty handy with that pistol. But you come up against someone with a rifle, you're in trouble." He tapped his own automatic. "See at mid-range this'll pump out so many rounds you're gonna be outgunned and dead most of the time. _If_ you can get off the first shot, and _if _it hits the head or arm, and _if _the target ain't got enough armour to stop it, then you might survive That's a lot of 'if's. And at long range, the rifle is king, whether it's a sniper or just a bog-standard hunter. You gotta get up close, and with surprise. Or take what cover you can and pray they give you the chance to get closer. Playing dead might help, if they're short enough on bullets not to risk wasting 'em. But I'd still give the guy with the rifle at least seven chances out of ten."

Arta raised her hands helplessly. "What am I supposed to do? Give up and die? Become a whore like Nova? You tell me."

"I don't think you're the sort that gives up easily. Though since you ask, you might try the whoring." Arta gave him a look. "Alright, its not your style. Well, try this. Get a rifle and practice with it. Get yourself some decent armour too, not that fancy jacket."

Arta shook her fists in frustation. "Don't you understand? I don't have the money for any of that, especially after going on a drinking binge. And there's no time for me to practice now. I need money soon or I'm dead one way or the other. I can't figure which I prefer: death by starvation or death from radiation sickness."

Jericho looked away. "That's hard to get around," he conceded.

"You're damn right it is!" She got to her feet.

"You that set on going, eh? Okay, a last bit of advice. Wait till an hour or two before sunset. That way you travel during daylight, so there's less chance of getting lost or ambushed. Then you make your final approach in the dark. As I recall it the place is all closed in. If there are any guards on the outside, you got a chance to spot 'em first and surprise 'em. Big advantage for you if you do."

"I guess that makes sense." Arta had almost got used to the idea that Jericho could actually be helpful to her after all. She decided that it might pay to retract her claws and show a little more womanly softness. "So what do you do if you've got an hour or two to kill in Megaton?"

"If my tab's still small enough, I get drunk at Moriarty's, and let 'em carry me home when I've had too much, heh, heh! As for you, I dunno what's your kick. If I didn't have any caps, I'd just go talk to some people. Manya or Billy Creel might spin you a tale or two."

"Wanna tag along?" Arta wondered if that sounded _too _flirtatious.

"Nar. I got shit I need to do. Make the most of your time. You might not have that much left."

* * *

"It's a beautiful poem." Manya held the fragile script as though it were a sacred text. "And one that's right for times like these. It's a shame it's not all there, but I'd sure like to make a copy, if you'll let me."

Arta asked, disappointed, "You don't know the missing lines?"

"Well, my dear, I know I'm old. To a young thing like yourself, no doubt I seem a great receptacle of knowledge. And indeed I can tell you plenty about the Capital Wasteland, and especially the history of this here town. But I don't know everything. A good deal of the pre-war literature was destroyed, along with the computer records of it. Fragments are all that's left to us, like the echoes of ghosts, as this poem reminds us." Encompassing the Wasteland in a sweeping gesture, she quoted: _"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings, Look on my works, ye mighty and despair!"_

Arta persisted, "Can you think of anywhere I might find the full text?"

The lines of Manya's age-creased countenance furrowed even more deeply. After a moment, she said, "Perhaps I can. The Scribes of the Brotherhood of Steel make it their job to dig up literature from before the war. Their headquarters is called the Citadel, on the west bank of the Potomac, not far south of this 'Supa Dupa Mart' you say you're headin' for. Follow the river south, past Wilhem's Wharf, where an old friend of mine lives, then past two big stone bridges which go all the way to the other bank, but don't you go messing with either of them. The one you need to cross comes just after, only its a lot smaller, with iron trellises, and beyond it is the Citadel entrance. When I last heard from my friend, she said the Brotherhood was keepin' the Raiders and supermutants quiet. But she still made a good living hunting Mirelurks, so watch yourself. Those damn things can sneak up on you awful quick, even though they've got shells near tough as Brotherhood power armour."

They stood on Manya's terrace looking west to where the sun was sinking lower in the sky. The high thin call of a carrion bird made Arta shudder. _Will it be feasting on my flesh before the sun rises again?_

_

* * *

_

"Shot through the head," the ghoul said. It kicked the half-naked corpse contemptuously. "With 5.56mm rounds. And this …" it flipped over another dead Raider with its boot to reveal the torn and mangled torso "…was a spray job. Probably from a high-end assault rifle. Very professional." It turned back to Arta. "Thanks, by the way, for not attacking us on sight. Most people don't tolerate our kind, can't distinguish us from the ferals."

_How adaptable humans are, _Arta thought. _I'm talking to creatures like zombies as though I've done it all my life. Even the smell doesn't bother me much now. Three walking corpses amongst half a dozen headless, rotting ones. A dead man's playground._

The setting sun threw roseate tones over the wrecked vehicles in the Supa Dupa parking lot. Nearby an intact low bridge and a half-destroyed fly-over crossed the slack waters of the Potomac towards the looming ruins of the central DC area. A stone statue on the far bank raised its arms as though in defiance to the decline of civilisation. Closer at hand, the gesture was returned with interest, where the street lamps surrounding the mart had been used to dangle the slaughtered bodies of some of its latter day would-be visitors. But Arta had become almost as accustomed to the sight of them as she had to the decaying flesh of her new companions, and was able to see much beauty in the gold-flecked splendour that the soft light of evening cast over the scene.

She asked, "Have you been inside?"

The low-lying building she referred to was of solid, unbroken stone and windowless. Two sets of firmly closed metal doors provided the only access. The legend above read _Supa Dupa Mart_, its cheeriness in stark contrast to the grim walls that shielded the interior from observation.

The ghoul ran bony fingers through its few remaining withered hairs. It was dressed, as were its companions, in typical Wasteland hooded tops and slacks, and it carried an antique hunting rifle slung over one shoulder. The stretching back of its wrinkled lips across decaying teeth gave the impression that it permanently wore a sardonic grin.

"We just got here, and found these two sacks of garbage already dead. We figured we weren't messing with no Raider place. The man or ghoul who sticks his nose into these kind of ruins often returns without his head. Even for zombies like us, that ain't healthy." He tapped what was left of his nose, and made a choking noise, which Arta assumed was laughter.

She said persuasively, "I've very good information that this particular building holds many valuable objects. If you help me search it, I'll willingly share them with you." She decided not to mention the possibility of pure food and water. No doubt ghouls would have no interest in such things, considering their own special state of radioactive decay.

One of the other ghouls growled deep in his throat, a sound little different from the rest of his speech. "Our lives may be miserable, smoothskin, but we'd rather carry on living them. And some of your 'valuables' are no use to us anyway, especially the drugs those psychos tend to hoard."

The third ghoul took up the debate: "Even so, if we're ever gonna get to Underworld, we'll need better equipment. Raiders often stock up on armour and weapons too."

Arta asked curiously, "Where's Underworld?"

"It's a city of ghouls in the centre of DC, about the only place our kind can live in peace." The first ghoul seemed to be pondering. "And maybe it's worth taking a risk if it makes getting there easier. Alright, smoothskin, we'll cover your back, but if things get rough, then we're getting out fast."

The second ghoul demurred. "I ain't going in, no way."

"Well, we'll need someone to guard the exit. I guess you've just volunteered for that." The ghoul pointed a skeletal digit at the nearest set of doors. "Lead the way, girl."

Arta wasn't entirely happy having these creatures follow behind her. _But if they're ready to risk everything to achieve their goal, maybe I should do the same._

After the double doors parted, she found herself in the largest interior space she had ever experienced, almost giving her a greater sense of agoraphobia than if she'd been outside. The high ceiling could only be glimpsed amidst a web work of steel girders, and the hall stretched far back into the gloom. Rows and rows of shelves were almost everywhere. A few electric lights created scattered, ghostly patches of illumination, but much of the mart was in shadow.

Arta decided that the best plan would be to work her way along the outer wall towards the second entrance, thus allowing another possible line of retreat, as well as good cover and concealment from which to observe the rest of the hall. She set out, crouching low behind a row of conveyer belts, trying her best to avoid kicking the detritus beneath her feet, mostly old tin cans. Behind her she could hear the harsh breathing of the ghouls, the only rather sinister noise in the otherwise eerie silence. To her right were the bulk of the shelves which must have formed the super market aisles, and she could see that someone had placed planks between them to form a series of walkways or bridges. But no one walked there, or could be seen moving anywhere.

Finally she reached the corner of the mart, and paused to peek out from behind a pillar. The second entrance was directly behind her, and to her left a passageway, light spilling from opposite facing doorways at its far end. Ahead she could see between a large gap in the shelving to a long counter right at the back of the hall.

She felt the tap of bony fingers on her shoulder, and jumped. She turned to look directly into the leading ghoul's face, its rotten flesh, lidless, bulging eyeballs and grinning teeth forming a nightmarish vision this close to her own. She could feel her heart thumping. Silently the ghoul pointed left towards the passageway and then straight ahead. On the ground, Arta could see two twisted shapes, which looked like bodies.

Trying to calm her breathing, she crept out from behind the pillar towards the nearest corpse, her eyes and ears intent for any sight or sound of movement. The hall remained dark and silent. She reached the body, and stopped to inspect it. It was that of a young woman with a shaven head and two little spikes of hair like devil's horns, but the shattering of the front of her skull had spoilt any beauty she might have possessed. She had been stripped of everything save her underwear.

Arta heard the low rasping whisper of the ghoul's voice. "Through the head again. Looks like a single bullet this time." To his companion, he said, "Check the other one, and take a look down the side passage. I gotta feeling we ain't gonna find anyone left alive here."

* * *

"So what we seem to have," the ghoul wheezed, "is a building full of dead Raiders, that have either been shot once through the head or had their throats cut. Some have been looted, some not. There are signs of weapons and armour being broken up for parts. That would seem to point to the work of one or two individuals who couldn't carry much. However that may be, we're pretty damn fortunate they're no longer here, considering the pro-job they made of clearing out the Raiders. As it is, there's plenty of good plunder for us to take away, and I suggest we do so promptly before said persons return." He began to stuff some hand grenades into his pockets.

"But what about the door?" Arta asked. They had assembled behind the counters at the back of the hall, after a preliminary search of the building. Apart from the half-a-dozen or so dead Raiders, and the usual corpses of victims with which they seemed to like decorating their dwelling places, so far they had found mostly gun parts, some miscellaneous melee weapons, and some boxes of ammunition and hand grenades. And then right at the back of the Mart …

"Don't get greedy, smoothskin." The ghoul's fixed pop-eyed stare seemed like an accusation. "You said you were clever with locks, but you couldn't open it. We've already had enough luck for one day, let's not push it."

"Maybe there's a key. It could be in one of these boxes. I bet the best stuff is locked away."

"Whatever, we ain't bothered. We got what we came for." To the other ghoul: "Gather up these assault rifle parts, and look round to see if you can find any complete weapons." He began tugging the armour off a dead Raider.

Arta rummaged through several boxes at random. Underneath the unexpectedly soft bulk of a teddy bear, she felt a distinctive metal shape, and exclaimed triumphantly, "I think I've found it!"

The lock was well oiled, and turned easily once the key was inserted. Arta opened the door almost expecting to find an Aladdin's cave of treasures, so she was a little disappointed to see another storeroom containing trestles and boxes. The most interesting object was a small containment chamber holding a bot identical to Deputy Weld, with a featureless cone shaped head, ridged torso and stubby arms and legs. But it appeared dormant, and Arta couldn't think of any useful reason to activate it. She was about to step further into the room when she froze as she heard a faint moan, almost a gasp.

At the far end of the room, between boxes containing bottles of nuka-cola and some other strange fluorescent substance, was something resembling a flat wooden bed. On this a naked woman was lying, her arms and legs attached to ropes in such a way that they could be tightened in order to stretch her body further, an instrument of torture similar to a medieval rack.

It was Silver.

Arta blinked, opened and closed her eyes, wondering if this was some hallucination her subconscious had thrown up, a guilty vision of the consequences of abandoning the former prostitute to her fate. All was as before. She approached the rack in horrified fascination. Silver looked unconscious, her lips were cracked and broken as if with thirst, and there were marks of abuse on her body. Arta knelt and, leaning forward, could hear her shallow breathing, could feel a quick, faint pulse at her neck.

Silver opened her eyes, which appeared sunken. Her face was deeply lined, as though she'd aged ten or more years. Her lips parted in a gasp, and Arta could see her tongue was swollen and clinging to the roof of her mouth. She reached in her pockets to find the last bottle of pure water. Carefully she allowed some to trickle into Silver's mouth. Silver choked, then swallowed it.

"Look we ain't staying here much longer, so unless you've found anything … what the hell?" The ghoul had entered the room and was eying the captive with apparent disgust. "This ain't a rescue mission."

Arta said, "I know her."

"No shit? Well you deal with her, and I'll take a look round here. Jees, this looks like a mini-nuke! You don't find these very often." The ghoul methodically set about looting the area.

The water revived Silver to some effect. She tried to speak several times, making only harsh sounds. Eventually she managed to croak: "Arta, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Don't try to speak. Drink some more water." Arta allowed Silver to sip at the water, until it was all gone.

"More." Silver's voice was still distorted, but at least resembled her normal one.

"I don't have any more. Wait, there's some here on the shelves". In fact, Arta's pipboy showed a low level of radioactivity in the water, but she figured Silver wasn't going to care. So much for Moira's mission.

After draining the second bottle, Silver appeared able to talk more easily. "Tell me I'm not dreaming. Or have I died, and you're an angel sent to rescue me from hell?"

Arta said, "Not so far as I know. I came looking for food and water, but it turned out to be a Raider hideout. They must have brought you here after capturing you."

"Yes, I remember now. The things they did to me …" Silver started to weep.

Arta was unable to stop tears filling her own eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't want this to happen to you, believe me."

"It's not your fault. I would have done the same in your position. And if you left me to die now, it would be no more than I deserve."

Arta exclaimed passionately. "I'm not going to leave you. I'll get you out of here, I promise." She looked frantically around the room for something sharp.

The ghoul said, "Whatever you're going to do, can you hurry it up, please?"

Arta found a combat knife, and was engaged in cutting Silver's bonds, when the second ghoul entered, panting. He said, "I thought I heard firing outside."

"Right, that does it. We're getting out of here. You're on your own." The ghouls unslung their weapons, and hurriedly left the room.

Arta said to Silver, "Can you walk? No? Here, I'll help you." The older woman was too weak even to get to her feet, and Arta had to haul her up and support her in much the same way as Lucy had done when she was drunk.

They reached the door, only to hear the tinny sound of a two hundred year old intercom being switched on. An evil voice made hollow by the mechanism announced, "We're back." Then, after a pause, "Wait, somethin' ain't right."

Arta hastily lowered Silver to the floor again. "Hold on, I'll see what's happening and come back."

She had barely spoken the words, when she heard fierce shouts of "Zombies!" and then, "Kill the fuckers!" Almost simultaneously came the chatter of automatic fire and several dull crumps. Screams of pain were followed by more cries. "Take cover!" "Flank 'em!" "Watch out, they've got grenades!"

Arta crept forward to the counter and peeped over. The ghouls had managed to get mid-way across the hall. They were trying to edge towards the nearest of the entrances, while alternately sniping and lobbing grenades in the direction of the other one. Arta could see dark figures mounting the boards between the shelves, and it was clear from the voices, the many gun flashes and the volume of fire that the ghouls were heavily outnumbered, and increasingly surrounded. Even as she watched, one of them staggered, but kept firing.

She ducked down to avoid the bullets whistling randomly around, her mind working rapidly. The ghouls would probably be quickly overwhelmed, and there was little she could do to help. She could run for the doors, but that would be expected and she'd likely be shot. Could she hide somehow? Not in the storeroom, which would be checked. She remembered the second ghoul had said the passageway not far from the entrance led to some toilets. Concealing herself in a cubicle might be possible, provided she went quickly while the fighting was still going on. If she couldn't escape immediately, then perhaps she could sneak out later.

With no time to think of a better plan, she crept back to Silver. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to leave you. But I'll lock the door, and I'll try to get back."

Silver cried desperately "Please! Don't go! You can't!"

"I must." Steeling herself and avoiding Silver's pleading blue eyes, she firmly closed and locked the door on further protests. In the hall the firefight had attained a greater intensity, gun muzzles spurting flame, bullets zinging and rebounding, grenades exploding to send showers of debris into the air. Arta vaulted the counter, then crouched low to sneak along the line of shelves in the direction of the passageway. The entrance was tantalisingly close … maybe she could still make it out straight away.

She heard the sound of running feet. Peeking out from behind the shelving, she could see one of the attackers had taken up a firing stance on a conveyor belt, only feet away from the entrance. He was tall, bearded and wore the leather spiked armour typical of Raiders. Trying to get by him looked suicidal, while shooting at him might get her noticed. She backed off, and worked her way around towards the passageway, staying in the shadows. Once there, she backed down it, waiting for the right moment to move through the lighted area near the doors.

In the centre of the hall, sheets of flame were sweeping left and right, as though from the all-consuming breath of a dragon. A female voice called gleefully, "Perish in the fires of hell, zombies!"

* * *

Arta perched awkwardly on top of a broken water closet, shivering and feeling sick. The sense of nausea arose partly due to her being in the most repulsively vile, stinking toilet cubicle she'd ever come across, but mainly because of the feeling of being like a trapped rat living on borrowed time. Given time to think, she was able to curse herself for not grabbing whatever she could and escaping. Or for being too cowardly to try shooting her way out. On the other hand, the ghouls had tried this approach, and were now at their eternal rest. Or in whatever portion of heaven or hell they'd been allocated. She was at least still alive, although she wondered for the first time whether that was preferable to the fate of those already departed.

Meanwhile some combination of thin walls or connecting ventilation ducts allowed her to listen to the conversations of the Raiders who had retaken possession of the mart. Prominent in the exchanges was the commanding voice she'd previously heard taunting the ghouls.

"Who have we lost?"

Another female Raider, whose cynical tones triggered a strange sense of familiarity in Arta, replied: "Kurt bought it from a grenade. Liesel's got some shrapnel in her leg, but we should be able to patch her up. Everyone else is fine except …"

A harsh male voice that Arta could also swear she recognised interrupted, "Except that everyone we left behind is fucking dead. Assassinated, shot through the noddle, slaughtered like cattle …"

"That's enough, Skar!" Arta suddenly realised the leader was berating one of the pair of Raiders who'd captured Silver. "I get the picture. How the hell did those zombies do this? All that flying lead, and they never hit any of us, except with explosives."

The woman who had spoken before, now identified by Arta as Lorel, replied, "Whoever did this was a real pro, not like these jokers." Some general muttering greeted this remark. Lorel continued, "In which case they may still be around somewhere."

"Exactly. First, I want to know if anything else is missing. Klaus, check the main store."

There was a pause. Then a call of "The key's not here!"

"Are you sure? Right, I'll open it myself, and we'll see."

Arta was unable to hear anything after that, but she was dismayed. Of course, the leader had a second key! She would unlock the store, find Silver was free and torture her to find what she knew. That might lead her to suspect someone was still hidden in the building.

Time passed. Then again, a series of barked commands. "General search! Skar and Lorel, the toilets. Klaus the com station. Voldo check the aisles. Move it!"

This was it! Arta could hear the two Raiders talking as they approached.

Lorel said mockingly, "Scared, Skar? You look ready to piss yourself!"

"That's because I am. I never go in the Wastes if I can help it. My old dad did that, and a radroach jumped up and bit his dick off."

"Shame it didn't happen before he had you! Now, can you check that one on your own, or do you need me to hold your hand?"

"Ah, Trinny's losing it, there's not gonna be anybody or they'd have tried to kill us already."

"Just do as you're told, arse-hole!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it!"

Arta got down from the closet, and held her silenced pistol ready. If she could shoot Skar and Lorel without alerting anyone … then she had to kill at least three more Raiders plus the leader. She considered for a moment putting a bullet into her own skull.

The first cubicle door banged open, on the opposite side and end to the one she was occupying. Then the second and third. Arta prepared to kick the door and fire as soon as she heard the sound of the fourth.

There was a pause. She heard Skar mutter, "Jees, I gotta go." Then the sound of him peeing, a steady stream.

He was in the third cubicle. There was just a chance … Arta carefully opened the toilet door, praying that it didn't squeak, and closed it behind her. Skar had paused in his urination, now started again. She crept silently past. The first door was still ajar. Slipping inside, she returned it to almost the same position and waited, breathing as shallowly as humanly possible.

Skar finished, and broke wind loudly. She could actually smell him. Then she heard him open the end door, followed by the one she'd lately occupied, the middle two, and lastly the one opposite to her. The sound of his footsteps continued past and diminished.

Arta released a breath. She'd calculated correctly he wouldn't bother looking closely at the cubicles he'd already examined or he might've spotted her feet. Climbing onto the closet would've caused too much noise.

Outside she heard him say, "Like I said, a waste of time." Waiting until the footsteps had moved away, she returned to her former position to overhear the Raiders again.

They seemed to be holding a council of war close to the entrance. The leader – Trinny, Skar had called her – spoke first.

"Thanks to the prisoner, we know one of the thieving scum got away, probably the most dangerous of them. She might try coming back. Seeing as we've lost nearly half the outfit, we need reinforcements. Klaus, I want you to go to the bridge. Take everybody off there and bring them back here."

There was the sound of general grumbling. A male with a deep, gravelly voice, presumably Klaus, growled. "I don't want to go out there. Anyway we had a full strength crew here before, and they all died. I say we abandon this place, go back to the tunnels. The old guy always used to say it'd be the death of us."

There was a murmur of agreement, followed by a horrible screech. Then Trinny's voice again, shot through with psychotic rage. "Now I've got your ear in my hand, d'you think you may hear me better? I command here! I say we stay! Follow my orders or _I'll_ be the death of you. Bring the others back, and we'll have a dozen to defend this place. We'll place mines and traps too, if necessary. Now get on your way. Fail me, and it'll be your balls I cut off next."

The murmuring had not completely died away. Trinny and Lorel must have been standing close to where Arta listened, because she heard the latter say in a low voice, "Morale's pretty bad, Chief. Maybe some entertainment might help. How about Mole Rat Fishing?"

Trinny's tone was a little higher in pitch and volume, the result of irritation. "We're down to six rifles, one of them wounded; then to boot we're threatened by some top rank operator, and you want me to put on a show? I'll entertain them some more with my blade if they mutiny!"

Arta could almost hear the shrug in Lorel's voice. "Your call, Chief. But I reckon this operator is well on the way to Megaton or their base camp with their loot. We won't see them for a while. The fishing won't take that long, and will improve the mood better than hacking off body parts."

"I guess you've got a point. But I'm not spoiling _this _little peach with the Mole Rats. She's for me. We'll take out the old skank instead." Raising her voice, she said, "Alright, we've had a rough day. So let's do some Mole Rat Fishing!" There was a ragged cheer. "Lorel, take this prisoner to the store, and get the other one out. Skar, you're going to stay here on guard with Liesel. Try to get that frag out of her leg."

"Aw, dang it!" Skar sounded like he'd bitten his tongue, adding hastily. "Affirmative!"

"And one other thing, keep your mind on guarding and healing Liesel, not messing about with her." Then, caressing her words with soft voiced menace, she seemed to be addressing the prisoner: "Don't worry, darling, I'll soon be back for you. And we'll play some interesting little games of pain and pleasure."

Arta could see that her chance had finally come.

* * *

"Wh-who are you?" The young woman's voice was timorous and subdued. Her hair was confined by a handkerchief, which if worn by a more aggressive individual might have been termed a bandana, but in the circumstances only emphasized the modesty of her appearance. Her clothing consisted of the plainest and dowdiest of grey robes; yet Arta could see that, given the addition of attractive clothing and make-up, she would be extremely beautiful. She had honey-coloured skin and liquid brown eyes, with features resembling the finest porcelain in smoothness and elegance of shape.

She went on, "You don't look like a Raider. But you have the key."

"I'm not, and I stole it. My name is Arta, and I'm here to rescue you."

"Rescue me?" The woman seemed bewildered. In a dazed tone she continued, "But there are so many Raiders. Can you fight them all?"

"No, but they've gone outside and left two guards, one of whom is wounded. We've got a great chance to escape." Arta had been hoping the captive would show a little more spirit than she had done so far. Tentatively she asked, "Can you use a weapon?"

"I-I suppose. A pistol anyway."

"Good. Take this." Arta handed over the Beretta she had brought from Vault 101. "I hope you don't need to use it." She rapidly inspected the storeroom. Time might be critical, and she didn't want to make the same mistake as before. The ghouls seemed to have taken most of the obvious valuables, except for a single grenade. Picking it up, she asked, "What's your name?"

"Mei Wong. Well, that's what I was called originally."

Arta hadn't time to ask what she meant by this distinction. "Mei Wong, do you see anything valuable here that might help us, and small enough to carry easily? But quickly, we don't have much time."

Mei Wong looked around her nervously. "Try searching that medical cabinet."

Of course! Arta yanked it open, found a stimpak and hypodermics containing Jet and another drug she didn't recognise.

Mei Wong added, "And here's two packs of Radaway, though I doubt that'll help much.

Stuffing everything into her pockets, Arta said, "Follow close behind me, but don't fire unless I do."

Approaching the nearest exit, she could hear Skar and Liesel talking.

Skar was saying, "You need to take more of your armour off."

"No, I don't!" Liesel giggled. "You just want to see more of my sexy body!" Coquettishly she added, "Do you think I'm more beautiful than Lorel?"

"Of course I do, but don't tell her I said it."

Liesel giggled again. "She's so vicious. I admire her for that. Of course, no one is more vicious and beautiful than Trinny."

"You're right. Now has that Med-X done the job?"

"I can't feel a thing in my leg anymore."

"Good, here goes."

Arta was almost on top of them. Both had the spiked haircuts which seemed popular amongst Raiders. Liesel was slender, while Skar was somewhat squat and beardless. He was kneeling, apparently about to pull the shrapnel out of Liesel's leg. Arta's silenced pistol was trained on the back of his head.

She hesitated, feeling the blood pounding through her brain. Was shooting these two strictly necessary? They had no weapons ready. Should she challenge, disarm and tie them up? That would take time, might be dangerous, yet she still felt reluctant to fire. Skar's incompetence at searching had probably saved her life twice, albeit unintentionally. He was undoubtedly an evil and ruthless man, but one she had almost become familiar with. To take his life so clinically seemed … _wrong _somehow.

She had half-opened her mouth but not fully formed the intention to speak, when next to her the Beretta barked, once, twice. Liesel's exposed leg was blown apart, the blood spraying over Skar's face, which he began to twist away.

Gently Arta squeezed the trigger.

Skar's head exploded in a bloody mess of bone, tissue and hair. His body slumped forward over Liesel's, still twitching.

_It was that simple._

_I have killed._

_I'm a killer._

Arta tried to examine her own emotions. She seemed to feel nothing. No reaction.

She turned to the quivering Mei Wong. "I thought I told you not to fire first."

"I was … over excited."

"You were … over excited?" Arta repeated. She suddenly wondered what Lorel would think about Skar's death. Would she be upset, indifferent, philosophical even?

Mei Wong asked, "Can we go now?"

"Not yet. I've changed my mind. There's still something I have to do."

* * *

*Some might question whether Raiders ('anarchistic ruffians' in the words of J.H. Eden) would be this organised. I would contend that a bunch of psychos would need a strong and determined leader all the more badly, or internal fighting would destroy them. Some might also doubt whether they would raise children. None appear in the game, but the urge to procreate is strong and the need to strengthen the clan in numbers and loyalty might encourage some groups to keep their offspring. Jericho in particular seemed exceptional, having survived a relatively long time, and deciding eventually to give up raiding,

Due to an indifferent response to my request for Raider name suggestions (with the exception of one reviewer), I had to come up with my own, most of them somewhat Nordic sounding. But why 'Trinny' as leader? The reason is complicated, and I will explain it at the appropriate time in the story.

Sadly I could not quite make my planned deadline for this episode. There were a number of different ways to do this chapter. Although the outcome in each case was similar, working through the complexities took time, and editing just pushed it past the weekend. Hope nobody worried I'd given up!*


	13. The Pit

Ch 13 The Pit

"Welcome ladies and gentleman to … Mole Rat Fishing!" The Raider capered madly, a flaming torch in each hand, flourishing them around his head in time with the words, without apparent fear that he might set his own long spiked hair ablaze. In the gathering dusk, the torchlight threw light and shadow on his face, and on those gathered round, as though it were a meeting of celebrant demoniacs or dervishes. "Your Mistress of Ceremonies, War Chief, Trinny!" He bowed low in her direction, extending the arms holding the torches out on either side, to the accompaniment of a cheer. "Then, in charge of the pole, our lovely Fisher, Lorel …" He swept the burning brands forward to coincide with another ovation. "And last but certainly not least …" his bared teeth showed yellow white in the lurid glare "... the irresistible Bait herself. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Silver!" A cacophony of maniacal laughter rang out, as though all the demons of hell had met in congress.

From her rocky perch above the scene, Arta commented dryly, "They may be a gang of blood-thirsty psychopaths, but they certainly know how to put on a show."

Mei Wong whispered apprehensively, "It's not one we should be watching. I don't know what we're doing here. We ought to be miles away by now."

The two of them crouched amidst an outcropping of rocks some twenty feet above the level of the Raider party below, and barely out of the circle of torchlight, though the participants were intent on the entertainment, and not currently looking in their direction. Instead they were gathered around an oblong trench in the ground, about five yards deep and wide, and about ten in length. Its walls were of a regularity, smoothness and height that looked beyond the ability of most creatures to climb or jump, and at one end an open doorway led into darkness.

Nearly all the Raiders were dressed in leathers, and had rifles slung or close to hand, their hair sticking up like porcupines, the spiral markings of their tribe showing up like the rings of old tree trunks. The exception was their leader. Even without the introduction, Arta could have picked her out from amongst the others. She stood slightly apart, with an erect stance, arms folded arrogantly. Her armour consisted of metal fibres tightly woven to form a kind of bikini, along with steel capped boots and shin guards. She carried only a light submachine gun, but close beside her was a bulky metal cylinder attached to the hose and nozzle of a flamethrower. Perhaps the only aspect of her appearance out of chime with ferocity was her purple-dyed hair, which was gathered in short ponytails at the sides, giving the undoubtedly misleading impression that she was a child-like woman. Her face was mostly in shadow.

Apart from the deep-voiced man sent to bring reinforcements, just four Raiders remained. Lorel was the only other female; she wore her hair in dark fans like the woman from Springvale School. A nearby torch revealed that her begrimed face was beautiful, but with an expression showing signs of depravity, her mouth twisted in a cynical leer, her beryl eyes hungry like those of a wild beast.

She straddled a peculiar device, consisting of a wooden pole, as long and as thick as the trunk of a young tree, attached at an angle of about forty five degrees to a circular wheel, the axle of which projected upwards from the ground, allowing the whole assemblage to rotate. A cable ran through grooves in the pole from a winch at the bottom end to where it was tied to a cage-like structure at the other, allowing it to be raised and lowered in the manner of a crane.

While Arta could only speculate whether the Raiders had constructed or simply found this mechanism, its sinister purpose was becoming increasingly apparent. One of the Raiders brought forward Silver, naked, manacled and, from the way she swayed and staggered, still too weak to walk unsupported, and thrust her into the cage, which rested on the ground. She slumped there, holding the bars for support, while the Raiders clapped and hooted.

Mei Wong whispered, "What are they going to do to her?"

Arta replied determinedly, "Whatever it is, I'm going to stop them."

"How can you?"

"With this." Arta reached in her pocket, and produced the hand grenade she'd taken from the store. Its segmented oval shape felt strangely comfortable in her palm.

"Just one grenade! You're mad! If you miss completely, or even fail to hit all of them …" Mei Wong protested.

Confidently Arta said, "I was the number one pitcher for my baseball team at home. I held the record for the highest number of strike outs."

"I thought baseball was a thing of the past, at least that's what President Eden's always telling us. Anyway, this isn't a game, our lives are at stake!"

"If we defeat them, and take their stuff, we're more likely to survive, especially if there are three of us."

Mei chewed her knuckles nervously. "It might even be a dud! And why take the risk, in any case?"

_Why indeed? _Yet Arta, so often torn between contrary impulses, found her soul at one in approval of this course of action, although for a number of quite different reasons.

_You gave Silver your word to help, _her romantic self admonished. _Your honour requires you to keep to it. Save her, and you'll be a hero, just like Grognak. _

_She cannot be trusted, _her calculating persona suggested. _And you ought to sell her to the slavers like she was planning to sell you. But kill these Raiders, and you can plunder from them as much as you can carry, perhaps even recover the caps they took from her. You'll be rich, and able to get whatever you want. _

_Yes, kill them all and take the best of their weapons for yourself _urged her aggressive side. _You can do it now, it's easy once you've made up your mind._

Perhaps strengthened sufficiently by the water Arta had provided, Silver had managed to raise herself upright. Her hair, once so elegantly curled to one side, was now an untidy and tangled mass; her skin was roughened, dirtied and covered with bruises. Her voice, when she spoke, was somewhat weak, but retained something of her direct and persuasive manner.

"Please, let me go. I'm good friends with Eulogy Jones, the slaver leader. Take me to him, and he'll reward you well with whatever you want: guns, ammunition, drugs, even another slave to replace me. You can have the youngest and freshest to play with and kill. Take a child, if that's what you prefer. Allow me to live, and it'll be worth your while, I promise."

Mei Wong exclaimed, with disgust. "This is the person you want us to rescue? A slaver bitch!"

Arta couldn't help feeling the same repugnance at the words, but before she could say anything, Trinny began to reply to Silver's speech with her own. The ex-slave and ex-slaver wasn't left long in suspense about the effectiveness of her desperate plea.

"You think to scare us with your slaver friends? The name of Eulogy Jones may terrify miserable townsfolk and their children; we Raiders do not fear him; his word does not run here. The Wastes are our land; we live in it free, as do the Yao guai, the Radscorpions, the Deathclaws. We kill those who trespass because they are all our enemies. We grant no mercy, and we ask for none. We answer to no one."

Despite the circumstances, Arta was able to appreciate the ingenuity and eloquence of the Raider leader in seizing the opportunity to raise the morale of her much-diminished band. At the same time, the woman from the Vault reflected on the strange chances of the Wasteland, where fortunes could rapidly rise and fall. Not long before, Trinny had led a force of at least a dozen Raiders; now that had been reduced to a handful. _Perhaps I too can rise as quickly as she has fallen._

As Trinny stepped further into the light, Arta could see the proud tilt of her chin, the dark eyes narrowed with murderous intent, full lips stretched in a snarl of rage. "Give her to the mole-rats. Let the Fishing begin!"

Lorel pulled a rod, and the low chugging sound of an engine began, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Once it had achieved a steady rate, she operated another lever, and the winch started to turn, pulling the rope attached to the cage taut. Silver gave a moan of fear as the metal structure began to lift off the ground, leaving her clinging desperately to the bars to avoid toppling out between them. Her motions caused the cage to sway slowly back and forth, while the Raiders jeered and catcalled. The wheel or drum on which the crane sat began to rotate, swinging Silver outwards on her precarious perch, until she hung in the void above the trench, alternately pleading and cursing, and thereby causing her tormentors even more amusement.

Arta glanced at Mei Wong. The young woman was leaning forward as far as safety and concealment permitted to watch the proceedings in fascination. Something about the furious almost savage expression in her eyes made Arta wonder whether she had misjudged the timorous nature of the captive she had freed. Certainly there was no hint that she felt any sympathy or fellow feeling for the prisoner whose place she might have ended up taking. But at least she hadn't tried to run away as Arta had feared. Self-preservation would surely lead her to join in the ambush, and at this range every bullet fired into the melee was likely to count.

The engine was switched off. A Raider picked up something that looked like a metal tray and struck repeatedly against it with a wooden paddle, making a loud clashing noise. As the reverberations died away, all became silent, even Silver, as every ear present strained to listen.

For a while there was no sound but the stirrings caused by the night wind, and the creak of the cable as the cage swung to and fro. Then came a faint scratching or scrabbling as of many feet across a stone floor. The noise grew more distinct, and intermingled with thin squeaks and hoarse gruntings. From the dark portal at the far end of the trench, a rounded, leathery head was thrust forward into the light, its beak-like snout questing for a scent, the wiry whiskers twitching. There was a pause, then came a high-pitched bellowing squeal. As though it were a signal a mass of pale brown bodies flooded into the ditch like a pack of wild dogs jostling for the kill. They filled the pit with their squat, ugly shapes, snapping at one another with incisor teeth, twisting to look upwards with eyes set in the sides of their heads, occasionally leaping in the air.

The Raiders greeted their arrival with wild halloos, one of them making a clumsy attempt at a jig. Another took a long pole with a dagger on the end like a spear and prodded it into the pit, encouraging the mole rats to take bites, and stabbing them with it, provoking the creatures to even more frenzied evolutions. The other Raiders began turning towards Lorel, slapping their thighs and chanting in unison, "_Fish! Fish! Fish!_"

The engine had started up again. Lorel was rotating the crane so that the pendulum like motion of the cable quickened, and now she partially released the winch, with the result that the cage and its terrified occupant sank lower towards the savage, snapping jaws below. Silver had completely broken down when faced with the full horror of her fate. She was sobbing and hysterical, gripping the bars as though they had some power to protect her. The rest of the Raiders were clustered around the trench, cheering and placing bets on how many passes Lorel would make before their victim was seized by the mole rats; the consensus being between three and five.

_How can they treat a fellow human being with such heartless sadism? True she's one of the worst kinds of character herself, but she hasn't deserved to meet this end. They really are the scum of the earth. _Yet Arta was moved to reflect on the other implications of the common humanity which they all shared. The Raiders had also once been helpless babies and innocent children. Could she be sure that had she swapped places and lives with them, she wouldn't now be standing by a pit baying for blood? This thought was too unsettling, and she tried to focus on the best plan of attack.

In a low voice, she said to Mei Wong, "When they're close enough together, I'm going to drop the grenade just behind them, so that they can't get out of the way without toppling into the trench. With any luck, those that aren't blown up will fall in amongst the mole rats, but get ready to shoot at anyone still standing, especially their leader. I'll try to take out the one on the machine myself." _Sorry Lorel, but you're mine. You aren't going to get the chance to find out what happened to Skar._

Mei Wong made no comment on this strategy, but asked, "Why are you really doing this? Is this woman a friend of yours? Do you work together?"

_How ironic, she thinks I'm a slaver too! _Arta said, "Because I'm the reason she's here in the first place. She was going to make me a slave, and I escaped. But in doing so, I abandoned her to be captured by these sickos. I don't want to be responsible for her dying like this."

Mei said stonily, "I don't understand. You owe her nothing, and she deserves to die."

With a hint of acerbity, Arta said, "And how are you the best person to judge that?"

Mei Wong made no reply, and Arta returned her attention to the problem of rescuing Silver. The timing was crucial. Wait too long for the Raiders to group perfectly and their cruel method of execution would succeed. But a premature attack which failed to kill or disable all of them might result in Silver dying anyway, and could turn her would-be rescuers into victims as well.

She was left dreading that she'd already hesitated too long, as she saw that Lorel had paid out sufficient cable to let Silver swing screaming downwards to make a close pass over the heads of the frenzied mole rats. In her terror, Silver lost her foothold in the cage, and slipped, one leg kicking frantically from the curved lower bars. Arta instinctively shut her eyes, unable to watch, as a horrible screeching noise arose. When she opened them a second later, the cage had swung past the lowest point and several enraged mole rats were falling back into the pit, squealing loudly. For a terrible moment she thought that they'd torn off Silver's leg, until she realised that she must have snatched it up at the last possible moment. Then her stomach knotted again as she saw that Lorel had let the winch turn several more times, and that the return swing was going to be even lower. But there was nothing she could do in time. The cage passed mere feet above the scrum of bodies, and a mole rat leapt up, missed Silver by inches and gripped a bar between its teeth. It hung there very much like a caught fish, diverting the path of the cage so that it banged against one of the smooth stone walls, nearly causing Silver to lose her balance again. The mole rat mob rushed towards her, but just in the nick of time Lorel reeled in the cable, pulling the hysterical victim out of their reach, and the clinging mole rat further off the floor.

The Raiders were dancing in ecstasy at the skill showed by their 'fisher', and the sadistic way she was playing with her struggling, weakened victim. "Nice catch, Lorel!" someone shouted. The mole rat had been reeled in so far that it was almost hanging out of the trench and seemed unwilling to let go. A Raider jabbed at it with a pole, then a lance of fire blasted outwards to envelop the creature, causing it to fall burning. Trinny had torched it with her flamethrower, narrowly avoiding barbequing the shrieking Silver.

Arta judged that she had a golden window of opportunity. Nearly all the Raiders were bunched together, and the cage was clear of the mole rats. She looked at Mei Wong. "Ready?" The young woman merely nodded, her face tense and set. Arta leaned forward, concentrating fiercely. She loosened her 10 mm in her holster, making sure the safety was off, then clamped the grenade in her fist, preparing to pull the pin as she had done countless times – in simulation._ This is the Vault 101 White Sox versus the Wasteland Raiders, _she thought. _And its two fingers for a curveball._

She would remember the scene time and time afterwards in dreams both waking and asleep. The faces of the participants caught in the yellow torchlight; Silver's pale, terrified, tear-streaked; Lorel's filled with savage elation, Trinny's wet with perspiration, reddened with excitement and heat, and those of the other Raiders wearing the same expressions of demented glee. She would recall the mole rat's angry screams as they scattered from the burning body, the relentless, bloodthirsty chanting, the thrumming of the diabolical mechanism and, amidst all this, the pitiful sobbing of a woman without hope in the face of a grisly death. Last of all, the thundering of her own heart.

Above the stars shone down like spars of ice, the moon's cold light was harsh as stone. Her fingers groped for the pin. Then something struck her hard on the back of the head, and she knew no more.

* * *

*This time I have to account for the update being delayed _and _shorter than usual. I could perhaps have taken more time to write a lengthier chapter, but the opportunity to finish on a cliffhanger doesn't always arise, so I felt I had to take it. Hopefully the next chapter will be quicker and longer.

Raiders with a crane? Well maybe and maybe not. When we consider the other improbabilities of Fallout 3, such as electric lighting still working in unlikely places like the metro, or the Brotherhood of Steel schlepping around in power armour but unable to reproduce a simple engine to power a vehicle, I think its one that could be allowed to get by. Don't get me wrong, I love the Fallout world as it is, but let me have one small crane. To me it has the feel of the knocked together tech devices you get in films like _Mad Max_, which the Raiders have pretty much been drawn from, minus the cars of course.

A place like the Pit does not exist near the Mart, so far as I know. I based it on the 'pit traps' you find in Old Olney, (without the Death Claws).

One more point about the previous chapter, _Way of the Raider_. Several reviewers correctly noted the Raiders' modes of speech differed considerably between the flashback and the action at the Supa Dupa Mart. Or as one contributor memorably put it, like 'medieval squires' as opposed to 'ordinary joes'. The explanation for this is that in the first instance I wanted to reproduce the 'noble savage' like language you get in various films involving barbarians and such like (eg 'Conan', 'Mad Max 3' and many others). Although the Raiders don't talk this way in the game, I figured that in certain special circumstances such as when they were challenging a rival or discussing matters of honour or vengeance, a more formal style might be used. Trinny partly employs it again in her speech in this chapter. Contrast this with the situation in the Mart where they're discussing the practical problems of the mess they're in. Of course this happens in real life. When someone's attending a court, wedding etc, they may speak more formally, reverting to normal language when the occasion's over.

And finally, my knowledge of baseball is about as sketchy as you'd expect from a limey. I've gathered the catcher holds up two fingers when he or she wants the pitcher to throw a curve ball. I imagine that would be the best way to throw the grenade (so it dives downwards). But I could easily be wrong, and would welcome someone else's expert knowledge. I mean does being a good pitcher even help you to throw an irregular oval object?

Holding up two fingers is incidentally an insult in England, similar to raising one finger or a fist in other parts of the world.*


	14. Hearts of Steel

Ch 14 Hearts of Steel

Arta found herself walking along a long dark tunnel with steel-lined walls. Only the occasional red emergency light winked through the gloom, but at the far end she could see a yellow glow. Sometimes it seemed to draw near, at others move farther away, so that it was difficult to judge how much distance she was covering or how much time was passing. However she felt no apprehension, confident that she would eventually reach her destination.

Suddenly she was standing outside a pair of metal doors. The sign above them was the source of the illumination, the style of lettering familiar to her since childhood. It said _Hydroponics._ A slightly smaller red sign underneath added the warning: _Prepare for Decontamination._

The only elevator in the Vault went down far underground to the chambers where the inhabitants' food was grown and processed in large vats. Arta's job in maintenance occasionally took her to this section. Amongst the technicians it was known humorously as "Visiting the Underworld" or "Going to Hell." Arta couldn't remember who had sent her down here or why. It didn't appear to matter. She punched the elevator button and waited.

It seemed that either a very long time had passed, or no time at all, and then the lift doors opened. At once Arta stepped inside.

Usually the lift was well illuminated, but something was wrong with the lighting, so that it kept flickering on and off. Arta wasn't worried. Probably this was what she'd been sent to fix. A fine mist sprayed over her face, causing her to blink slightly; at least the disinfection process designed to protect the food section from bacteria and other contaminants was working normally.

A voice spoke at her elbow. It said, "Quiet down here, isn't it?"

Arta had not previously noticed that the lift was occupied. Now as she tried to look, she found the combination of the spray and the erratic flickering of the light made it difficult to focus. She could make out that the person standing next to her was a man, wearing a Vault suit like her own. His head and facial hair were shaven, even his eyebrows were missing, but she could not clearly see his face.

Replying she said, "Yes." Her voice seemed to echo somewhat.

The light blinked rapidly, then went out altogether.

The voice came again. "Now its dark too."

Arta gave a shiver. The unknown person spoke in hollow tones, yet there was something strangely familiar about them.

She repeated, "Yes." Then, "Why did they send you down here?"

"They didn't. You did."

"I did?" Arta felt a growing uneasiness. Something wasn't right. "Then why am I here?"

"I suppose someone else sent you. Perhaps to keep me company while I'm waiting."

"Why are you waiting?"

"You always have to wait, don't you. For them to give you the once over." The voice sounded impatient as though being asked obvious questions.

"Once over?"

"The once over on your life. So they can decide what to do with you." The voice became a trifle melancholy. "I don't expect I'll come out of it very well. I've mostly done bad shit: rape, murder, torture; you name it."

Arta experienced a growing sense of horror. The voice in the darkness was sounding more and more like one she recognised.

Tremulously she asked, "Who _are _you?"

"You should know," the voice said a little reproachfully.

"How should I know?" Arta asked fearfully, but she _knew, she knew._

"Because you killed me." The lift reached the bottom with the noise of a leaden casket closing.

Arta screamed, the sound so loud and terrifying in the confined space that she placed her fingers over her ears to block out her own voice. The blackness was closing in, closing into her mind. The screaming continued, but seemed to be coming from some place far away. She closed her eyes, then opened them again in the dark. Her head suddenly hurt as though a thousand hammers had pounded it. The darkness was not as total as before. High and far up were many small lights like flecks of fire. A round white lantern shone down brightly from above.

Then her perspective adjusted. She was lying on her back, looking up at the night sky speckled with stars. The moonbeams cast an ivory sheen over a hooded figure crouched above her, face invisible beneath the cowl. As another wave of pain hit her, her vision blurred. She tried to touch her temple, and discovered her hands were bound together at the wrists with some kind of cloth. She moaned as her head continued to throb.

As her eyes refocused, she could see the crouching person was wearing a light brown top and white slacks, and holding a Beretta pistol, _her _Beretta. Although the dark oval of the hood continued to conceal the wearer's identity, Arta was sure she recognised the clothing from the way it had been patched up. But if her suspicions were correct, then she was beginning to wonder into what strange nether world she might have strayed.

"Si .. .Silver? Are you … are we …still alive?"

She could hear the whistle of air through teeth. After a pause, the hood was thrown back. Beneath it, a mass of dark ringlets surrounded delicate features. For a moment recognition wouldn't come, but then …

"Mei Wong?" The confusion had been due to the darkness, and because she had never seen the young woman without her bandana. It took just a second longer to realise that the length of cloth binding her hands had formerly confined the lustrous curls now on display.

Mei Wong looked tense. She moved her lower arm at the elbow, so that the gun was pointing more directly at Arta.

Questions crowded into Arta's head thicker than the bees that seemed to swarm inside it. She tried to focus on one, and eventually stammered out, "Where did you find those clothes?"

"In the Mart. I figured going around dressed as a Raider might get me shot eventually. So I brought them along and swapped them for the others." She tilted her head towards the discarded suit of Raider armour she'd been wearing.

Arta puzzled over her next question, then chose, "Why are my hands tied?"

Mei Wong replied tersely, "I was sure you'd have a lot of questions to ask me. I thought you might not like the answers to some of them."

Arta absorbed this, then asked, "What happened to Silver?"

"That was one of those questions." Then, with brutality: "She died like a bitch. And that's exactly what she deserved."

The shock seemed to wake Arta's mind from its lethargy. She tried to concentrate her thoughts on Mei Wong, watching her intently.

"You saw?"

"I saw enough." Mei Wong's voice and expression showed no remorse. Arta tried to think how she could get through to her, distract her attention.

"Did you enjoy watching?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"It's a simple question."

Arta paused, trying to fight the giddiness, the excruciating headache and the slight feeling of nausea. Her life might depend on raising her state of alertness. She gritted her teeth, before continuing, "Or did you wonder what it would be like in her shoes? Especially as you're wearing her clothes."

Mei Wong cringed, taking her eye off Arta, and lowering the gun. Instantly the Vault woman kicked out with one foot, catching Mei squarely in the face, snapping back her head and sending her sprawling backwards. Using her arms as leverage, Arta scrambled desperately to her knees, then threw her body across Mei's before she could recover, forcing her gun arm and shoulder downward with her elbows. For several frenzied seconds they struggled, almost breast to breast, but anger and desperation lent Arta strength, despite her disorientation. She hung on grimly, ignoring Mei's feeble attempts to employ her free hand to claw at her face, meanwhile using her teeth and brute strength to tear apart the flimsy bindings around her wrists. With her hands finally free, she twisted the Beretta out of Mei's grasp and pressed it to her head. The young woman went limp with defeat.

Hauling her up into a half-sitting position, Arta shook her brutally, almost screaming into her face. "Why? Why the hell did you knock me out? We could have done it together, rescued Silver and taken all the loot. Okay, you might not like slavers. Neither do I. But they were feeding her to a pack of friggin' mutant rats, for Christ-sakes! Didn't you have any feeling for another human being, a captive like you? If I hadn't rescued you, you'd have ended up in that cage eventually, pissing yourself in fear and waiting to be torn to bits. Couldn't you have shown a little empathy, a little gratitude?"

She jammed the gun fiercely to the side of Mei's head. The trembling woman gave a squeal of fear.

"Please, please don't kill me! I had to do it, believe me I had to! You see I'm a slave, a runaway slave."

Arta stared into Mei's terror stricken eyes, her breath coming in furious pants, her mouth half-open to reply. But no words would come.

In a desperate gasp, Mei continued, "How could I let you free that woman, a slaver? She might've taken me back to Paradise Falls, or even worse, to my old master." She sucked in some more air. "I could've killed you when you were helpless. I didn't, because you saved my life."

Facing each other, they continued to breathe harshly as the moments passed. Then Arta gave Mei Wong a little push away. Crouching on one knee, she returned the Beretta to its holster.

Mei watched her nervously. She asked, "You aren't going to kill or hurt me?"

Wearily Arta shook her head. "There's already been enough torture and death for one day."

Mei sighed with relief. "Thank you. And I'm sorry that I hit you. There wasn't much time, and I was afraid you might not listen to me."

Arta said, "You're probably right that I wouldn't. But why didn't you tell me you were a slave before?"

"Why d'you think? Many people accept slavery as normal, and think that slaves are wrong to run away. I couldn't be sure you wouldn't try to turn me in."

"Well that's one thing I would never do. You're free to go wherever you like as far as I'm concerned. I'm going back to Megaton if you want to come with me."

Mei Wong shuddered. "That's one thing _I _would never do. My master lives in Megaton, and I'd rather die than go back."

Arta said surprised, "In Megaton? I didn't notice the people there had slaves."

"Slaves are everywhere. You know I heard that before the war people had machines to do the hard work for them. Now most of those machines are destroyed or useless, slaves have replaced them. Though perhaps only a few in Megaton are rich enough to afford them. My master is very wealthy, but he hasn't been there very long.

Arta asked curiously, "What was he like?"

"I don't think I can describe him so you'd understand. He was so … strange. You could never be sure what he was thinking. But I do know he scared the hell out of me. His name was Burke. No first name that I ever heard anyone use. People just called him Mr. Burke."

Arta exclaimed, "Mr Burke! I believe I know him! I met him in _Moriarty's Saloon._" She briefly described Burke's appearance.

Mei nodded. "That's him all right. He always wears those old-fashioned clothes."

Arta asked, "Did you come to Megaton with him? And if so, where from?"

"A place called Tenpenny Towers. It's this old hotel, really well preserved and luxurious, with clean running water, hot showers, beautiful decorations, pretty much the best of everything. And its very safe, guarded by the most expensive and well-equipped private mercs." She paused. "Why are you looking like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're in a trance, or something. Anyway living there wasn't at all bad, even for a slave. True the residents were mostly bigoted arse holes, and considered themselves superior when in fact they were a bunch of boot-licking parasites. They fawned around the owner, Alistair Tenpenny, like he was a god."

"I can imagine." Arta was thinking of the Overseer.

"He was no god, more like a dirty old man. He used to be my master. Oh he never touched me, not like that anyway, and he'd only beat me if he thought I was being lazy or insolent, but I could tell he enjoyed doing it. Still all things considered, I could've ended up in a far worse place."

Arta shook herself out her reverie. Eager as she was to hear more about Burke and Tenpenny Towers, she was aware that their current position amongst the rocks could leave them exposed to attack, even if they had the cover of darkness. She wanted to get somewhere safe as quickly as possible, but without having to leave Mei Wong. She remembered Manya's directions.

She said, "I think I know a place nearby where we could shelter for the night. Then we could talk some more and decide what to do tomorrow."

Mei Wong said, "I'm all for sheltering. Stories like mine are best told somewhere safe inside."

* * *

"So how is dear Manya?" Grandma Sparkle finished polishing the barrel of her hunting rifle. "And what about that crazy old coot, Nathan?"

"She's well, and he's … still crazy," Arta replied, improvising rapidly.

Grandma Sparkle gave her a sharp glance. "Still harping on the same old subject, is he?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Arta decided not to try and guess what that subject might be. "He almost never mentions anything else!"

"Well that sure sounds exactly like him! Used to be quite a reasonable feller till he got a bee in his bonnet about the Enclave. I always said Manya could've done better, but I guess at her age she's tolerant of his little weaknesses. My own dear husband, god rest his soul in eternity, passed away only a few years ago, and not a day goes by that I don't think of him." She gave a fond smile, and a titter. "Just wish I could hear one of those loud farts he was accustomed to giving!"

Tactfully Arta said, "I'm sorry that he isn't here now so we could've met him."

"Well that surely is nice of you to say that! And you know, it's certainly like Manya to send someone like yourself, with very good manners I might say, out here in search of a poem. Otherwise I might've reckoned you for a couple of bushwhackers that were name dropping to catch me off guard." Her voice sharpened just a little. "Even so I ain't exactly helpless, as you've just seen. My eyes ain't lost all their sparkle, like my name oughta tell you."

They had indeed seen. The journey to Wilhelm's Wharf had gone without a hitch, until they reached the riverside. A series of wooden jetties were linked together to form the Wharf, the dark water lapping gently at the quay. Arta had paused to look into the depths, fascinated by the shimmering of the moon's reflection amidst the wavelets. She had been about to turn away, when something broke the surface of the water, a white oval carapace covered in slime.

Mei Wong screamed: "Mirelurk! Run for it!"

With petrifying suddenness, the creature rose from the depths, sending water spraying as it leaped onto the pier. Though it was roughly humanoid in form and size, its features were crustacean-like, the head somewhat resembling a crab's in shape, and the arms ending in giant pincers. Hard shell covered most of its body, including its jointed legs, the armour of which Manya had warned.

The Mirelurk made a strange chittering noise, and swung one of its clawed arms at Arta, twisting its entire torso to add lethal weight to the blow. Frozen in horror, Arta would have been sliced open as though by a razor sharp cleaver, if Mei Wong hadn't pulled her out of the way. Before the creature could recover its position and strike again, Mei had dragged her further out of range, shouting all the time, "Run, run!"

Arta felt as though her feet were like lead, responding with nightmarish slowness as the creature approached them, moving with inhuman, springy steps. She grasped Mei's hand, and together they broke into a stumbling run, their feet slipping on the wet wood of the quay. Their pursuer was gaining speed and momentum, and only just behind them. Desperately they ran faster, trying to out distance it, but greatly increasing the chance of a fatal misstep. They had opened up a gap of several yards, and could see a small hut on the jetty ahead of them, when the inevitable happened, and Mei Wong tripped and fell, almost pulling Arta down with her.

The Mirelurk was almost upon them, but paused, perhaps confused by the unexpected motion of its prey.

A voice shrill with age yelled, "Over here, you ornery critter!"

The creature turned in the direction of the sound. A rifle barked, and the Mirelurk staggered back, a viscous fluid oozing from its head. A second shot followed with the same result, and then a third. The Mirelurk teetered, then abruptly fell forward and lay still.

"Heh, heh! Shooting 'em in the face is always the best way." The woman holding the smoking hunting rifle appeared somewhat younger and more vigorous than Manya, although white-haired and showing the lines of age. Her pale grey eyes possessed a harder and more assessing look, and she wore a rounded helmet and goggles similar to the one Moira had used during her weapon test. Her voice was brisk, but not unfriendly. "So how you folks doin'?"

Arta took hold of both Mei Wong's hands to pull her back to her feet. Briefly their faces were close together. Mei Wong gave an uncertain smile. Arta couldn't help but return it.

She said, "We'll be fine now."

* * *

"Shelter in my hut? Why, surely." Grandma Sparkle smoothed a crease out of her faded, grey robe. "Long as you don't go pokin' round where you've no right to. In fact you can even rest up and sleep if you want. My boys are out hunting Mirelurks till tomorrow morning, and when they're not around, I generally sit out here and keep watch." Her tone again held a hint of warning. "I may look like I'm dozing, but I always keep one eye open. No Lurk or Guai's gonna sneak up on me, nor no one else neither."

The hut was even smaller than Silver's shack, and sparsely furnished. Apart from a stove, much of the room was taken up with cupboards, cabinets and boxes, presumably amongst the items Grandma Sparkle had insisted they leave alone. Towards the back, a hunting rifle and ammunition cases lay on top of a long workbench, and behind that they found a single bed and a blanket, worn but spotlessly clean.

Mei Wong said, "There's only one bed."

"I guess they have to sleep in rotation in this place. You can have it. I slept a lot during the day." Remembering Jericho's advice, she decided to risk Grandma Sparkle's displeasure and picked up the rifle to examine it. She sighted along it, assessing the weight. It felt somehow natural and comfortable in her hands. "I wish I had one of these."

Mei said, "I'd leave it well alone if I were you. That old woman meant what she said." She yawned, and sat down on the bed. "Come, sit and talk for a while."

Arta put down the gun, and joined her. "I haven't yet thanked you for saving my life back there."

"You're welcome. As you've saved mine, I suppose that makes us even." Mei ran her fingers through her luxuriant hair. "Tell me about yourself, and how you grew up."

Arta considered. She felt better disposed towards Mei Wong than before, but recent experiences suggested that she was far from being someone she could trust. Taking into account people's varying reactions to former Vault dwellers, it seemed prudent to postpone revealing too much about her life history.

She said, "My mother died when I was born and my dad upped and left not long ago. I had to leave my old home, and was hoping to find a new one, perhaps in Megaton. That's about all there is to say." Seeing Mei was about to ask a question, she said quickly, "Your own story sounds much more interesting. Tell me how you came to be in Megaton with Burke."

Mei looked a little puzzled, then shrugged. "Okay, so long as you don't mind scary bedtime tales." She paused as though to summon up courage, then began hesitantly. "Burke was Tenpenny's chief henchman. I never had much to do with him, though I sometimes caught him looking at me. I used to wonder what unpleasant thoughts were going through his head. One day Tenpenny told me he'd made me Burke's personal servant, and I'd have to go with him and do whatever he said. When I went to see Burke he smiled in a way that really put me on edge, and ordered me to pack up his things ready to leave. He didn't say where we were going or why, and I was dreading what was to come.

We crossed the Wastes with four mercs from Talon Company, bastards all of them. I had to carry Burke's gear like I was a pack brahmin, and they taunted me unmercifully, sometimes even tripping me deliberately. Burke did nothing to stop them, and seemed to enjoy seeing me suffering."

Arta asked, "These mercenaries were his personal bodyguards?"

"No, they're guns for hire, but they usually take on the nastiest kinds of missions. Even with that kind of escort, the Wasteland took its toll. A Yao Guai jumped us on a cliff path, and badly wounded one of the Talons. They made me tend his injuries, but in revenge I left one of the bandages loose, and he bled to death. Then the Talon leader wanted me killed. Burke, however, wouldn't allow it. He said, "She's far too valuable to waste like that." He spoke quietly but the way he looked at me made me terrified rather than grateful. I thought that maybe the Talons would rebel and kill us both, but they followed his orders without question. I began to believe that they were almost as afraid of him as I was, for all that Talons are supposed to be the toughest mercs around.

When we finally got to Megaton, Burke bought one of the most expensive houses in town. I saw him loading Moriarty and that Sheriff with caps, probably bribes. After we moved in, he left me locked up to keep house, and disappeared for most of the day and evening."

Arta asked, "Didn't you try to escape while he was away?"

"Not at first. The house was strongly built by Megaton standards, and in any case I was petrified at what Burke might do to me if he caught me." She sniffled. "But that was before … before …"

Arta said gently, "Don't worry, you've escaped now. Telling someone about it may help."

"I … I don't know. It's hard to explain to someone else who didn't experience it."

Arta ventured to stroke Mei Wong's shoulder reassuringly. "I've spoken to Burke myself. I know something of what he's like. Try me."

Mei glanced sidelong at Arta, her large brown eyes reverting to the shyness of a small, furtive animal. "Alright." She seemed to compose herself. "Most of all I was afraid that Burke would try to molest me in some way, or even rape me. Though, of course, when it happens to a slave, many people don't even consider it rape. If you own someone's body, you can do what you like with it, they think. But for me it was more frightening, because … I'd never been with a man." Looking at Arta, she said, "I know that sounds difficult to believe in these times, and especially if you've been a slave. But I'd been captured in a slaver raid at a young age, and then got sold into Tenpenny's service almost straight away. Like I said, he never touched me, except with a whip. So I remained a virgin."

Arta shrugged, "I guess that can happen." _If she only realised …_

"Burke only seemed to want me to perform simple household tasks like cooking and cleaning, but that didn't make me feel any less frightened of him. When he was at home, he would _watch _me as I went about my duties, as though the way I performed them had some importance to him. Or he would stop me, and look directly into my eyes, as if he were trying to read my thoughts. This constant observation soon got on my nerves, as the only relief from it was when I slept or when he was outside. Even then I was left on edge wondering when he was coming back, as he occasionally did unexpectedly.

Over time his behaviour towards me changed. He would speak to me for longer, on seemingly random topics, but which I suspected were contrived to test my responses. Sometimes he would make me read to him from pre-war books, of which he had a small collection. These extracts were frequently violent or macabre or sexual in content, and reading them was often upsetting and embarrassing. All the time I could sense he was watching to gauge my reaction.

As time went on, he took to appearing behind me, and speaking or touching me on the arm. That was the thing that scared me most, and I think that he became aware of this, and did it more and more. One day he came home without me realising. The first thing I knew was when he suddenly touched my hair from behind. I'd always wanted to keep my hair as something for myself, so I covered it up except when I was asleep or alone. He began to muss it a little, and I could feel his breath on my neck. Then he started to touch me … everywhere … I … didn't know what to do … I …"

Arta said. "Its okay, you don't have to tell me everything if you'd rather not." _But I want to know!_

"But I want to tell you now. No one had ever … done this to me before. The sensations were … strange, frightening and exciting at the same time. When he began to touch my breasts … and … and other places, it felt pleasant, yet at the same time he was taking away control of my body from me, making it respond in the way he wanted. He seemed moved by some passion, and yet there was something cold and calculating about it, as though this too was part of his plan. And I began to think, this isn't right. I don't love or want this man. He can force or order me to obey him, but I won't comply of my own free will. So I made myself go limp. I didn't fight; I just shut out everything and didn't respond.

As soon as he realised what I was doing, his whole demeanour changed. He became enraged and, drawing back his hand, he struck me full across the face. He had never hit me before, and it was terrifying. Then he stormed out of the house, banging the door."

Arta had almost unconsciously put an arm around Mei Wong, who was beginning to tear up. Mei brushed her eyelids angrily, and pursed up her lips, as though determined to continue.

"I staggered to the sink to bathe my swollen face in a little water. Then I crept into a corner, and waited, my knees pulled up, my arms clasped around my body. I waited a long time, until darkness showed through the cracks in the walls. Still he didn't return.

I had been in a state of terror for so long now that it seemed fear had lost all its power over me. I looked in the drawer underneath the sink, where I knew the cutlery was kept, and selected a large carving knife. Then I took up a position to one side of the house door, so that it would open towards me. I waited again, the knife held pointing downwards from my fist.

After what seemed like an age, I finally heard the lock click, and the door opened. I no longer felt any fear, or anything at all. When Burke walked forward into the room, I raised the knife high and sprang forward to stab him from behind.

I thought I had made no noise, but as soon as I moved he turned, more quickly than I would have thought possible, catching the knife just as I was beginning the downward stroke. He was incredibly strong, and held my arm there, looking straight into my eyes. And he smiled, a terrible smile. I knew then, I _knew_ that this was what he had wanted all along. And that I must do whatever I could to escape from him."

Grandma Sparkle opened the hut door and poked her head through. Arta and Mei Wong were sitting, heads close together.

"My, dontcha look cosy! I thought I'd tell you there's a radio that looks like its part of one of the cupboards, that one over there. You're welcome to listen to it. Oh, and they'll be Mirelurk cakes for breakfast. Sweetest meat you'll find, and it doesn't move in your stomach like Molerat. Sleep well, and we'll talk again in the morning."

After the old woman had left, Mei said, "I wonder if we're close enough to DC so we can get Galaxy News Radio."

Arta asked, "Galaxy News, what's that? I've only heard that Enclave station which repeats itself over and over."

"Really? Well I guess if you've only lived in the deep Wastes you might not have heard it; and the signal seems to have got weaker lately, so even in Megaton it wouldn't come clear. Like the other station, it plays records from before the war, but they're much better, I think. There are words to them, and the songs are about real things and emotions, like love, and so on. The DJ's this guy called Three Dog, and I'm sure he's a living person, not a recording like President Eden seems to be. He does repeat himself as well, but sometimes he tells you about things happening in the Wasteland. He gives advice too, even if it's a little obvious. I mean like, hide from Raiders and avoid radiation? Still anyone with musical taste that good can't be bad, you'd think. Listen, and you'll understand." She found the switch for the radio, and tuned the dial.

Arta always remembered the first time she heard a song from Galaxy News Radio, and the lyrics, sung in a clear, sweet female voice, were imprinted in her mind and cherished in her heart.

_Maybe you'll think of me,_

_When you are all alone._

_Maybe the one who is waiting for you,_

_Will prove untrue,_

_Then what will you do?_

_Maybe you'll sit and sigh,_

_Wishing that I were near,_

_Then maybe you'll ask me to come back again,_

_And maybe, I'll say maybe._

Seeing that she was moved, Mei asked, "Is there someone that this reminds you of?"

"Yes." Arta was barely able to speak.

Mei said, "I wish there was someone that special for me." After a pause, "Does it hurt so much to remember?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't know which of us is unluckier."

The next song began, _Into each life some rain must fall, but too much is falling in mine, _and seemed to sum up Arta's predicament so accurately that she was hard put not to break down on the spot. It was Mei's turn to offer a sympathetic embrace.

The song ended, and a lively, upbeat male voice began, _"This is Three Dog … oowwww! And you're listening to Galaxy News Radio, bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts."_

Mei added, a little unnecessarily, "That's Three Dog. You see he's trying to tell it like it is."

The truth! Arta had heard so many lies that she wondered whether this bold claim could really be believed. Still at least she could listen to Three Dog's take on events, and compare it. And, as Mei had said, there was always the music. Perhaps that represented an even higher form of truth.

Three Dog's news was that the town of _Grayditch_ had gone 'quiet' and people there seemed to be staying indoors. His advice to go check up on them didn't seem so smart to Arta.

Mei Wong agreed. "I think Grayditch is west of here. We'd best give it a wide berth." She yawned again. "I can't talk anymore, I have to sleep. Listen to the radio if you like, but turn it down please."

Arta indicated her pipboy. "I can use this to tune into radio stations and play them through an earpiece. You won't hear a thing."

"That's clever! Where did you get advanced tech like that? Actually, tell me about it tomorrow." Mei pulled the hooded top once possessed by Silver over her head, revealing a torn, dirty and bloodstained bra she seemed to have salvaged from a dead raider. "Jees this needs a wash!" After a moment's hesitation, she removed it, her face flushing slightly. Arta tried to look without appearing to do so, and observed that her breasts were small and neat, the flesh still firm and unblemished. Mei took off the slacks, but kept on her panties, either out of modesty or because they were in rather better condition. Then she lay down, pulling the blanket over her head.

* * *

Arta jerked awake. She had dozed off in Grandma Sparkle's rocking chair while listening to the radio. The 'sleep' function had switched it off, so it wasn't causing the sounds which had disturbed her. She was aware of a series of moans and sighs coming from nearby.

Looking round, she could see that Mei Wong was writhing under the blanket, while making the noises that she had heard. Arta at first jumped to the obvious conclusion, then realised Mei was still asleep, and presumably in the midst of a vivid or disturbing dream. She watched curiously.

Mei began to mutter in her sleep, at first too low for Arta to make out the words. Her wriggling increased, along with the volume of the muttering, and she said, quite clearly, "Yes, take me! Please!" Following these words, her motions became violent and in a change of tone, she cried, "No, no! Help, somebody help!" Her eyes flew open.

The next moment Arta was cradling her head gently. Mei Wong gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, what a nightmare! I'm glad someone … I mean, I'm glad you're here."

Soothing her forehead, Arta said, "I guess after today it'd be surprising if you didn't have bad dreams. Can you remember what that one was about?"

"The last bit of it, yes. Burke was chasing me. He was using molerats like hunting dogs, and he laughed every time they snapped at my heels. It was horrible. Just as I'd fallen over, and they were about to get me, I woke up." She frowned. "I'm sure there was much more, but I can't seem to remember."

Casually Arta asked, "Was Burke involved in the other part of the dream?"

Mei shook her head. "Perhaps, but I don't recall it. If he was, then maybe its better that way."

_Are dreams another way of getting at the truth? _Arta wondered again about Mei Wong's version of events. Even if it was accurate, the young woman's subconscious desires might be hidden even from herself. The timid, innocent impression that she first gave was certainly not the whole story. _Burke was trying to recruit someone who would kill ruthlessly and without remorse. Had he begun to realise that person might be under his nose all the time?_

Mei pressed closer to her. "I'm afraid to go back to sleep. Maybe if you're near, I won't be. Do you mind getting into bed with me for a while?"

"Not at all." Arta hesitated, removed her leather jacket, followed by her jumpsuit. Mei Wong made no comment, and made room in the bed for her to snuggle alongside. Arta slid in, and pulled the blanket over them both. Lying together, their bodies were pressed close, in contact at almost every point. Arta's flimsy half tee was the only clothing preventing their breasts from touching directly; their panties brushed up against one another, exchanging body heat, their lips were only millimetres apart.

Mei Wong whispered, "I've been thinking. I may die tomorrow. So tonight, I want to live as fully as I can. Will you … help me?"

Arta reached out to smooth back the silky curls. "Of course I will." And then their lips and every part of them touched.

* * *

Arta squatted to watch the sun rise above the jagged line of the DC ruins, reflecting flame from the river surface, washing the quay with waves of gold. The feathery clouds looked as though they were about to part to reveal the Son of Man descending in glory to reclaim the world and build a paradise on earth.

_The fire of life is beautiful, yet how quickly the flame burns and is gone. Last night we created an inferno between us: the kisses, the sighs, the caresses, the moans of pleasure: yet it was the act of making love, and not love itself._

Her body felt satisfied, perhaps as satisfied as it had ever done, but not her soul. She did not love Mei Wong, nor did she even like her very much. When their naked bodies had twined together, it was to claim something back from the Wasteland, something other than a life of struggling to survive. Each had known what the other wanted, and provided it regardless of feelings.

Was that how Amata had felt … afterwards? Yet surely that was different. They had been close to one another for years, whereas she had only just met Mei. Shouldn't that time have counted for something? If her suspicions were correct, Amata had become the kind of cold woman unable to feel strong affection for anyone, not even her own father. Arta's reason urged her to this conclusion, but her romantic self protested, _That's not how she really is!_

From behind her, Mei Wong asked quietly, "Why do you weep?"

Arta turned towards her, making no attempt to conceal the tears, "I mourn for the time when I will lose all this."

"This … you mean, the Wastes?" Mei said unbelievingly.

"All this … _beauty_."

Mei bowed her dark locks. "I don't think I understand."

"You only have to look for it."

They fell silent then for a while, until Mei ventured tentatively, "Arta, about last night. I don't want you to feel you owe me anything. If we have to part, then …"

"It's alright, Mei Wong. We don't have any more obligations between us."

Mei sighed with relief. "Okay. And if our paths run together for a while, that will be fine too."

"Well folks, can I give you any more assistance before you're on your way?" Grandma Sparkle was walking towards them across the quay, her rifle shouldered, squinting her eyes against the bright light.

Looking directly at her, Arta asked bluntly, "What are your views on slavery?"

The old woman frowned. "I'm not exactly in favour of it, not exactly agin' it. Why'd you want to know?"

Arta glanced at Mei Wong, who nodded. "It might help if you can tell us a place where the people are definitely against it."

Grandma Sparkle looked dubious. "I've heard Wasteland rumours. Some say far to the north of DC there's such a place, called the New Union, a community of freed slaves. But the way to it is long and dangerous. Rivet City is closer, and I've heard the Council doesn't hold with slavery, which is not to say it's completely safe there. In any case, you'd have to cross the river and the far bank's infested with Supermutants."

Arta asked, "What about the Citadel?"

"Oh, _there_! Should be a breeze to get to, compared to the others. What such folks as the Brotherhood think about slaves or whether they'd be inclined to let you in at all, that's another thing entirely."

Arta looked to Mei again, who said, "It's got to be worth trying. I'm not going to dice with death to get to the New Union or Rivet City unless I really have to."

"Very well. We'll go together."

* * *

"No Supermutants or travelling salesman allowed inside. This is the headquarters of the Brotherhood of Steel, Capital Wasteland Division. It's a military establishment. Civilians aren't welcome."

Arta regarded the figure in front of her with a mixture of frustration and awe. Paladin Bael, as his name suggested, had a more than close resemblance to a legendary knight from her favourite comic book. With his fair, blonde locks and the huge silver-grey metal armour plates which protected him from the neck downwards, he reminded her of Sir Hugh Longblade, from Grognak and the Virgin Princess (Issue eighteen), the eponymous barbarian's unlikely ally and eventual enemy. But whereas Sir Hugh had been punctilious in following the codes of chivalry (thus leading to his disagreement with Grognak following the rescue of the no longer virgin princess), Bael simply came across as blunt, inflexible and uncooperative, behaving in most ways as though he didn't give a damn. As far from her idea of a knight in shining armour as it was possible to imagine.

This was disappointing, because when they'd first come in sight of the Citadel, she'd been excited, as well as a little daunted, to see the members of the Brotherhood patrolling the perimeter and manning the 'battlements' like medieval armoured warriors. She had listened repeatedly to Three Dog on Galaxy News Radio describing the Brotherhood of Steel as fighting the 'Good Fight', protecting the Capital Wasteland from Supermutants and Raiders. Now she was experiencing a dose of realism and disillusion. The armour was in fact a piece of high-tech equipment designed to protect the wearer from environmental hazards like radiation and biological toxins, and powered up to allow faster and easier movement. And rather than the Brotherhood being perfect, gentle knights inhabiting a fairy-tale castle, they appeared to be down-to-earth, cynical, rather disdainful soldiers defending a ruined building, and disinclined to be welcoming to strangers.

True the Citadel, with its high, ridged stone walls and metal gantries overlooking the Potomac, looked more formidably intact than most of the wrecked shells they had encountered along the shoreline. And the Brotherhood looked well equipped to deal with its enemies. Apart from power armour, some of the latter day 'knights' carried advanced laser rifles, along with more prosaic weapons like assault rifles and flamethrowers, all in good condition. Paladin Bael himself wielded an enormous rotating machine gun. Unlike the other Brotherhood soldiery they could see, he chose to leave off the sealed metal helmet which shielded the wearer from harm, and screened his or her visage from direct observation by others. Perhaps this was an attempt to give the Brotherhood's doorkeeper a human face, as well as a voice not mechanised by coming through speakers, and obscured by the rasping of breathing equipment.

If this was indeed the intention, Bael's highhanded manners rather spoilt the effect. Arta was already seriously riled by his arrogant assumption of superiority, and his slighting references to herself and Mei Wong.

"We're not trying to sell anything, and we're obviously not mutants! Mei Wong is here to find refuge from her cruel master, and I'm in search of the other half of a poem." As she reviewed her words mentally, Arta was forced to concede that they might not sound very convincing to an unsympathetic ear.

Bael gave a smirk, and a slight titter. "Well by the Sainted Sarah Lyons' Holy Hand Grenade! It sounds like you've come to audition for the part of Penelope Chase in the _Adventures of Herbert Daring Dashwood_ on that crappy radio station. Or some other work of complete fiction. Look girly, this is a fighting military unit. We use our big guns to shoot big Super mutants. Elder Lyons may have altered our goals a little recently, which he can do because he's the main man. But until he tells me they've changed to sheltering slaves who can't hack it, or … " he spluttered with mirth "helping aspiring literary critics, I ain't letting you in. Got it?"

Arta felt any sense of awe evaporating and replaced by burning anger. "I thought you people were supposed to help us! That's what we're told on that 'crappy radio station'. Or maybe I should be listening to John Henry Eden. Common criminals are what he called you."

The Paladin gave her a sardonic look. "Well I guess you can pay your money and take your choice of crap."

Arta was already turning away, stepping aside to avoid the Brotherhood's diamond headed, wedge-shaped combat bot, which advised in emotionless synthetic tones: "_Move-along-please_."

"Come along, Mei Wong, we'll make it on our own. Maybe Rivet City or the New Union will be more hospitable than these so-called knights."

"You want to go to those places? Well here's some advice. Don't. Do yourselves and us a favour and stay away from central DC, its chock full of mutants." Bael sounded just a trifle riled.

"You haven't given us much choice, have you?"

"I only do my job. Okay, I'll give you some useful tips if you're set on going. Swim the river from that jetty over there. When you reach the opposite bank, pass the boathouse and hug the shoreline at the bottom of the promenade walls. When you get into the open, run like hell towards the big white statue. Make it that far, and Rivet City will be right in front of you. And watch yourself. They'll be a Supermutant camp on your left, and more of those frankensteins patrolling the Jefferson Memorial on your right." He pointed towards a distant domed building on the far bank, apparently connected to the rest of the land by a narrow causeway.

"What!" Arta exploded. "These are your brilliant suggestions? To swim an irradiated, Mirelurk infested river, then run the gauntlet between two sets of mutants? Go stick your head in brahmin shit!"

"Wait, Arta." Mei Wong spoke quietly but firmly. "I'm going to take the man's advice. If we're nice, he might repeat it again."

Arta stared at her. "You've gotta be kidding me!"

"No, I'm not. Like you said, I don't have much choice."

* * *

Arta and Mei Wong stood on the jetty looking towards the opposite riverbank. Mei had stripped down to her underwear, and packed her other gear into a bundle tied to her back. She looked nervous and vulnerable.

"Well, now I'm ready." She gave a brave smile, although her lips were trembling. "At least these clothes are going to get a much needed wash."

"Don't joke!" Arta hugged her. "You shouldn't have to do this!"

"In some other world or life maybe not. But this is the reality I'm faced with now. Myself alone. I know I can't ask you to come with me."

Arta looked down ashamed, then fumbled in her pockets. "Please take this. I found it in Silver's shack. I think it protects against radiation. And take one of these packets of Radaway too."

"It's only a short distance. But thank you … for everything." She smiled again and kissed Arta on the cheek. Bracing herself, she took the Rad-X dose, stretched her arms outwards and dived clumsily into the water.

Arta watched as she struck out frantically for the far bank, expecting any moment to see smooth, white shapes gliding in for the kill. But none appeared. Mei dragged herself out on the opposite side, looked back to give one final wave, then crept cautiously away, eventually disappearing out of sight down a slope.

With a feeling of despair and dread, Arta turned away from the shore. All of her efforts so far to help other people, and to help herself, seemed to have amounted to very little. The ghouls were dead, Silver was dead, Mei Wong would probably soon be dead. And what of her own fate? The sun was still high in the sky, sparkling on the water, yet the road back home seemed dark and threatening, especially now she was utterly alone.

She turned on GNR, hoping to hear something soothing. Instead Three Dog's voice echoed mockingly in her head:

_So if you see a knight or a paladin fighting your battles for you, don't forget to give them your thanks or, better still, some ammo._

"Hogwash!" she shouted aloud, stamping her foot. "It's all utter hogwash!" An angry tear ran down her cheek, and she turned the sound to mute.

* * *

*Well the delay is longer than ever, but at least this is a much more substantial episode than last time (plus extra A/N naturally).

Sorry Silver fans but, unless you're inclined to disbelieve Mei Wong and are very optimistic, it looks like she's not coming back into the story. I honestly couldn't see any further part for her to play.

Mei Wong's age is given as thirty in Wiki, and I'm not necessarily disputing it. However for story purposes I needed her to be much younger, and she otherwise almost perfectly fits the required character profile.

Paladin Bael's advice wasn't at all bad in the circumstances. In the game, at least, I've found swimming the Potomac is the best way to get to Rivet City, and its perfectly possible to sneak by the Supermutants. Of course in 'reality', swimming an irradiated river isn't a pleasant prospect, and the dangers would be far greater. Not to mention that, for reasons which are obvious, most Wastelanders (and Vault dwellers!) wouldn't know how to swim. But since the game lets you do it ... People can also learn by being thrown or falling in, though that particular trick didn't work for me. I would've drowned if someone hadn't fished me out!

Holy Hand Grenade? If the Brotherhood aren't fans of _Monty Python's The Holy Grail, _they should be!*


	15. Angel of Death

Ch 15 Angel of Death

Arta crouched amidst a pile of building rubble, trying to control the frantic pace of her breathing and heartbeat. She felt a sudden and inconvenient need to pee. Nearby the harsh voices continued their conversation, of sorts.

"Talk!"

"What talk about?"

"Just talk!"

With a mighty effort of will, Arta gathered enough courage to very carefully peep out from behind a chunk of stone. Her lips were trembling, and she felt faint.

They hadn't got any closer, and were standing together to converse. One leaned casually on the large wooden plank it held easily in one hand, the other ported a massive machine gun like Paladin Bael's. If it wasn't for this last detail, Arta might've hoped they were creatures of fable conjured out of her imagination, and that this was all a dream. Even so their resemblance to what she imagined ogres or trolls should look like was close enough to reduce her to a child-like state of terror.

Both were of a height far taller than a tall man, barrel-chested and with limbs the size of tree trunks, their heads looking absurdly small in comparison to the rest of their huge bodies, the hairless flesh a sickly yellow colour. Their faces seemed set in a permanent snarl, showing rows of sharp pointed teeth. The machine gunner wore a helm with a decorative crest and was clad in crude but formidable looking pieces of metal armour, while his counterpart was protected only around the shoulders, chest and groin. Arta guessed that in any case a pistol would have little effect against the gigantic muscular frames of such monstrosities. There was almost no doubt in her mind that these were the Supermutants of which she had been warned. And they were blocking her way home.

The creature with the plank scratched its bald head, its eyes squinting, its voice laboured, as though every word required an effort.

"I been thinking. I need a new weapon, one that doesn't break so often."

"A Fatman?"

"No. Something to smash. I wish I had one of those Behemoth clubs. So big, so much crush."

The more heavily armoured mutant gave a guffaw. "You very stupid, like a stupid human! You too small, too weak to hold it!"

Shuddering at the thought that there were mutants even bigger and stronger than these two, Arta tried to focus on the problem confronting her. In an attempt to circumvent the Super Dupa Mart, she had been travelling west from Wilhelm's Wharf amongst some of the more intact large buildings, when the Supermutants had appeared. She had just about had time to hide in the rubble, but the creatures had positioned themselves so as to make it difficult for her to go forwards or backwards without being spotted. Her only hope seemed to be to wait for them to go away, or for darkness, which was still many hours off. Assuming, of course, that the mutants' night vision wasn't far superior to a human's.

One thing was in her favour - they certainly weren't very smart. The creature with the club seemed particularly dumb.

A note of pathos in its voice, it protested, "Aw, you no fun to talk to. I'm gonna go back to doing … what I was a doing."

Arta's sigh of relief was cut short as the other mutant interjected, "Wait, I have joke for you. Knock, knock."

"Who there?"

"Humans."

"Humans who?"

"Kill the humans, kill them all!" It gave an insane chortle.

The mutant with the club appeared puzzled for a moment, before something like comprehension seemed to dawn. "Hah, hah! Very funny!" It stumped away, still chuckling, but to Arta's dismay, the Supermutant gunner remained, occasionally swinging its weapon left and right.

She looked for some way round its position. To the south, a deserted street passed through more ruins, and Arta noticed that one of the buildings to the west had a doorway-sized gap in its side. If she could just keep the rubble between her and the mutant, then sprint the last few yards while it was looking away … the creature turned to peer north, and Arta dashed.

_"What was that?"_

Inside the doorway, Arta could hear the terrifying crunching of heavy boots over rubble getting closer. She looked round frantically. The building was a shell like many others. Steps led up to the roofless first storey, but there was no escape that way, only an exposed dead end. She was about to make for the only other ground floor exit, when she noticed that someone was crouching next to the upper level windows, looking out of them.

His close-cropped hair was red as a fox's brush, and his clothes and combat armour were black. He held a long rifle with a telescopic sight, training it through one of the window gaps. On the ledge next to him were several boxes of ammunition, some grenades and an assault rifle.

"Somebody there?" The guttural voice of the mutant spoke again from just outside the doorway. At the sound, the man in black turned, swinging his rifle round to cover Arta. Raising her hands to show they were empty, she placed a finger over her lips, and pointed towards the building entrance. Signalling his understanding, the man sighted his rifle on the location indicated. Still keeping her hands up, she scuttled up the steps towards him like a frightened rabbit.

"Hello?" Hoarse breathing could be heard below. The head and shoulders of the mutant were thrust through the doorway, following the minigun.

The man in black fired twice in rapid succession. With a bellow, the mutant reeled back, putting one hand up to its crested helmet. Then it advanced again, with a shout of rage.

"I'll eat your heart when you're dead, human!"

The man squeezed off three more shots without apparent effect, before dropping his weapon and reaching for the assault rifle. The mutant was still coming, and Arta saw that its enormous gun was swinging in their direction and beginning to rotate with a terrifying whining rattle. Desperately she grabbed one of the grenades, pulled out the pin, and flung it down the stairs, at the same time dropping flat to the floor. Bullets whistled within inches of her head, and then came the blast and heat of the explosion.

It was followed by silence. Gasping Arta raised her head to look. Several wisps of smoke were rising from the carcass of the Supermutant, slumped in a grotesque posture with one hand raised as though in protest, its minigun whirring to a stop.

"Looks like you took care of that one." The long drawn out accent, with its soft vowel sounds made Arta start, and she turned to face her rescuer – or was she his? She was surprised to realise he was quite young, with a pallor of skin and blue eyes resembling her own, but there was a certain hardness about them which made her wary. His regular features were conventionally handsome, showing the signs of good living absent from most Wastelanders she had met up to now. He smelt of cigarette smoke, and on the breast of his black armour was a peculiar insignia, like the claw of a bird.

Keeping her voice low, she said, "I think there was another one."

The man paused to listen. After a moment he said, "If it was coming, it'd be here by now. They're not usually very subtle that way." He grinned. "That was a pretty good grenade throw, by the way."

Arta decided not to return the grin. "You liked it? It was my first."

"Is that so? I find it hard to credit." In his soft accent, he continued, "So what's an attractive woman like yourself doing out in the Wastes?"

Not liking the man's flattering tone, Arta replied coolly, "You could say I've been out shopping. Now I'm heading back home to Megaton."

The man continued to grin despite Arta's lack of friendliness. "Well in that case you're headed in precisely the wrong direction, Miss …?"

"Arta."

"Miss Arta. Megaton's back that a way."

"I know." She nodded towards the corpse. "That's the way I was going until I met Frankenstein's monster down there."

"I see." He squinted at her. "It strikes me you're not the kind of girl that scares easily."

"How'd you figure that?"

"You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"Should I be?

"Unless you're on my list of targets, no." He held out his hand. "Lieutenant Paul Wolfe of Talon Company, Thirty Three Platoon, at your service." Noticing her hesitation in shaking it, he added. "I see you've heard of our little outfit."

Arta nodded.

"Well it's true people often do fear us. But this is a squad specialising in extraction and assassination. We don't bother anyone we've not been hired to bother, unless they mess with us first."

Arta took the proffered hand and shook it. "Pleased to meet you Lieutenant." _But I don't trust you. _"May I ask what _you're _doing out here?"

He paused as if to consider. "I guess there's no harm telling you, and maybe you can help us. They'll be a reward for you, if you do."

Arta shrugged. "How can I help?"

"We're looking for two targets in the vicinity of Greyditch: a scientist by the name of Dr Weston Lesko, and an escaped slave called Mei Wong."

Arta tried to stop her face betraying her, but it was too late. The assault rifle had risen to point at her heart, and all friendliness had vanished from its owner's voice and features as though a switch had been thrown.

"Don't even try to pretend you don't know anything."

Arta thought rapidly. "Dr Lesko, yes, I mean everyone's heard of him, haven't they?"

She heard the sound of the weapon being primed to fire. "No. No, they haven't. Lie to me again, and I'll shoot you where you stand."

_Oh, shit, what do I say? Even if I tell the truth and betray Mei Wong, he might not believe me. Why the hell didn't I mind my own business? Think, Arta, he doesn't know where this Lesko is, or he wouldn't be asking. And Lesko's a scientist, maybe a mad one like in a sci-fi story._

Carefully she said, "I've heard he's got this underground research facility quite near here, where he does some crazy experiments. And … it's protected by robots with laser guns, lots of them."

She tensed herself, waiting for the hail of bullets that would end her life if she'd given the wrong answer. Instead Wolfe said, "Go on … I'm listening."

_I can't risk any more lies! _She put every ounce of conviction she could muster into her voice. "I swear to you that's all I know. The person who told me died before he could say anything else."

The sweat dripped from her brow, but Wolfe lowered the rifle marginally. "Underground, you say? That would be in the old metro tunnels, Marigold Station."

"Yes, I guess so."

"Alright, I'm letting you live for now. But you'll come with us, and if you're lying it'll be the worse for you."

"I … I'm not lying."_ But I am, and unless I escape they'll kill me! _

Wolfe seemed to relax slightly. "Meanwhile we'll wait while the rest of my squad return from their sweep. Come over here." Observing Arta's reaction, he added, "There's no need to be frightened, if you've been telling me the truth." Reluctantly she advanced a few steps. Impatiently Wolfe said, "C'mon right here, where I can see you properly." Feeling sick at what she anticipated was in his mind, she shuffled a little closer. He grinned and let his eyes run over her. "You're a very pretty young woman."

Trying to think of something, anything that would distract him, Arta asked, "What will happen to Lesko – and the other woman - when you find them?"

"I've no idea what our client has in mind, but we've orders to capture them both alive, if that makes you feel any better." He wet his lips with his tongue. "Speaking of which, you still look real tense. Why don't you make yourself more comfortable, and take off that gun belt?"

With a sinking sensation, Arta slowly unlaced the leather belt, and allowed it to fall to the floor, along with the holster containing her Beretta.

Wolfe kicked it out of reach. Leaning back, he said lazily. "That's a good beginning, but we can do better. Next I want you to …"

A long burst of automatic fire came from somewhere nearby. Looking down, Arta could see a man in an identical uniform to Wolfe, a hundred yards or so away, firing an assault rifle at something out of sight behind a low building. As she watched, a second Talon mercenary appeared, running past the other at full speed, with his pants quite literally on fire and burning. The soldier with the assault rifle continued to shoot while backing rapidly away. Meanwhile his comrade was rolling on the ground in an attempt to put out the flames.

"Shit!" Wolfe moved over to the window, picking up his sniper rifle and reloading it. As the two Talons continued their frantic retreat, scuttling shapes were emerging behind them, rushing low to the ground with their many jointed legs. They looked like …

"Fuckin' ants! They're running from fuckin' ants!" Wolfe's tone showed his contempt. Arta remembered the Vault survey team had reported an encounter with giant ants, but the photograph had given no real indication of their size. These ones were about the length of a Mole rat, big enough to be a serious threat to a human, though Wolfe clearly didn't think so.

The fleeing Talons were now within hailing distance. The uninjured one twisted his head to look upwards in their direction.

"Cover us, Wolfe, you arsehole! These fuckin' ants breathe fire!

Even as he spoke, another giant ant appeared on their flank. From its jaws came a stream of flame to envelope the Talons. They screamed as their clothing caught fire.

"Oh fuck!" Wolfe raised his sniper rifle. Without looking at Arta, he said roughly, "Stay right there, and don't move a muscle." He squinted through the telescopic sight.

_Not a chance._ Arta realised this was almost certainly her best opportunity to escape. Whether the Talons or the ants were victorious, they would be occupied for only so long. She remembered Wolfe had fired five shots before dropping his rifle, so that was when he would have to reload. She stole a glance to where her pistol belt lay, only a few feet away.

Wolfe was firing now, and Arta was counting. _One, two. _Combat armour covered much of his body, but not his head. _Three, four_. The range would be close to point blank, the target a similar size to the one she was accustomed to practicing on, though it might move and she might not have time to take proper aim. She must not miss.

_Five. _As soon as the shot was away, and while Wolfe was still looking through the scope, Arta backed several strides quickly, squatted by her holstered pistol and drew it.

Wolfe was aware of her movement. His hands were already going through the motions to reload, and he stood up, twisting towards her, trying to confuse her aim. His rifle was aimed and ready to fire the instant the magazine was loaded.

Arta was already in a crouching stance, the pistol following the motion of Wolfe's head. Her mind was clear and calm, and she knew instinctively when the Berretta was pointing at the target. She squeezed the trigger. Red blood burst from Wolfe's temple, to mingle with his auburn hair. The rifle dropped with a clatter from his suddenly slack arms.

With the confused sounds of battle coming closer, Arta wasted no time contemplating her fallen foe. She slipped on her gun belt, turned, gauged the drop to a rubble pile on the ground floor and leapt.

* * *

He was standing in the doorway, and his eyes were big and bright. A tousled mop of mousy brown hair fell over his forehead, as he looked downwards, hands in the pockets of his dungarees. She wanted to draw him close and hug him.

Gently she said, "Come with me, its not safe here."

At the sound of her voice, the boy's eyes widened even further, and he turned and fled.

Without hesitation, Arta followed in pursuit. In the Vault, children were considered the most precious gift, because their numbers were strictly controlled. To be allowed to give birth was a great privilege, and all Vault females had their fertility suppressed as soon as they began to menstruate. To do anything but try to protect a child was utterly against all her instincts, and to harm one a crime almost beyond imagining.

The boy sprinted across an open space between the ruins, Arta several yards behind and rapidly closing the distance. The noise and commotion of combat died away to be replaced by the patter of their feet and panting breaths. The boy abruptly darted behind a tall metal cylinder, and was out of Arta's vision for only seconds, but by the time she reached it, he had disappeared.

Arta looked round frantically. Nearby was what appeared to be an old diner, burnt out and deserted. She turned to examine the peculiar cylindrical structure he had vanished behind. On the side of it was the symbol of radioactivity, and at the top the legend, _Pulowski Preservation Services. _But of greater interest was the flashing sign just below. It said, '_Occupied.'_

Quickly Arta searched for an opening mechanism. At the touch of her probing fingers, a rounded metal door slid back. The boy was inside, and tried to bolt past her, but she was too quick, and grabbed and held him, despite his frantic struggles to get away. To make his escape more difficult, and to avoid attracting unwanted attention, she pulled him inside the Pulowski Shelter, then found the button which drew the door shut.

The boy stopped struggling. Instead he held up his hands towards Arta, the forefingers straight and crossing one another, as though making some kind of sign.

"Keep away from me, Angel of Death!" he shouted.

Arta felt a sudden chill amidst the claustrophobic warmth of the shelter. There was barely room for the two of them.

"What? What did you call me?"

"That's what you are. The Angel of Death. You're here to kill us all with your flamin' sword." The boy waved his arms excitedly as far as the confines of the metal tube would allow.

"I – I don't have a flaming sword. Why d'you think I'm an angel?"

The boy frowned. "You look like one. Don't try to pretend, you can't fool me."

"What does the Angel of Death look like?"

"Like you, all dressed in black. And … real purty." The boy blushed. He seemed calmer now, as though resigned to the worst happening.

"I'm not _all _dressed in black," Arta pointed out. She had resumed wearing her black Vault security helmet for greater protection, the one Amata had said made her look like an angel when the light caught the visor. But the dark blue of her jumpsuit was visible below her jacket.

"Well you've got an Evil Snake on your back anyway. And if you're not the Angel of Death, then who's brought all this fire and destruction on us?" The boy said this in the manner of someone reaching the conclusion of an argument.

"I … don't know. But it isn't me." _He really is quite a lovely child, _she thought. He was around the age of eight or nine, his skin was olive and clear, and he showed no signs of ill health. Her fertility was suppressed, but not her maternal instincts. She would like to have mussed his hair. Instead she crouched down to a more reassuring height. "My name's Arta. What's yours?"

"Bryan. Bryan Wilks." He watched her warily, but with less obvious fear.

"Well, Bryan, can you tell me how you got to know about all these things? About angels and so on?"

The boy hesitated. Then he said, "It was Mr Brandice, Will's dad. He was our neighbour, but I was always a bit scared of him. One day he took me aside. '_Listen, boy_,' he said. 'T_he time may come when the Angel of Death's gonna be stalkin' the land. When that day arrives, if you want to survive, you'd best hide yourself away. Then maybe she'll pass over you._' So when the Bad Things started to happen that's what I did. But since Dad left, I've had to go out from time to time to find things to eat."

Arta ventured to stroke the side of Bryan's head. He didn't pull away. She said, "I think Mr. Brandice was trying to tell you something important, he just put it in a funny adult way. Because hiding was the right thing to do." She put her head close to his. "So who looks after you now?"

"Just me, I guess. Mom's been ... gone a long time, way before any of this happened. Me and Dad were on our own. Then the ants started breathing fire, and Dad and Mr. Brandice went looking for Dr. Lesko. Dad said he thought maybe a scientist could help us. But they've been gone a while now.

"Dr. Lesko? Do you know where he is?"

"He used to live in that shack just outside of here, with his shiny metal man. He had lots of cool stuff inside. But right before the ants began rampaging, he disappeared."

Arta said, "Bryan, listen to me. Some men in black are looking for Dr. Lesko. They aren't angels or anything like that. If they ask you where he is, pretend you've never heard of him. And try to stay away from them if you can."

"Okay." Bryan regarded her solemnly from beneath his fringe. "Now I've spoken to you, you don't seem like the Angel of Death at all."

"Well, I'm pleased you think that. I don't like to kill people, and only do so when I really have to."

"See, the Angel of Death would never say that. Are you going to help me then?"

_How can I not, you've already stolen my heart. _Aloud she said, "I'll do my best to get you to a place of safety."

"No, that's not good enough! I need someone to find Dad." The boy folded his arms, and pouted his lips stubbornly.

_His dad's very probably dead. _Arta put an arm on his shoulder, and stroked the soft cheek. "That's gonna be very risky. First I need to make sure you're not in danger yourself. I want to take you back with me to Megaton."

"No, I won't go without Dad!" Bryan pulled away from her attempted embrace. "What would happen if he came back? He'd think I was dead or stolen away by someone."

"I … we'll leave him a note then, so that he knows you're safe and where you are. Is there somewhere he would find it?"

"Yes, our old house. But I'm not running out on him anyway."

"Bryan, please! You've been very brave and clever to keep yourself alive all this time. Your dad would want you to stay that way. You won't be able to help him otherwise." Arta took hold of the reluctant child, held him tight to her. Releasing him, she looked straight into his big, sorrowful eyes. "Once we've got you to Megaton, I'll do everything I can to find him. I promise."

"Cross your heart?"

"Cross my heart." Arta made the sign but she thought, _How many more of my promises will be left unfulfilled?_

_

* * *

_

They emerged cautiously from the Pulowski Shelter, Arta holding Bryan's small hand in her own. Flames sprouted from a nearby pile of rubble, and high chitterings could be heard all around.

Bryan pointed. "Our house is right over there."

Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, Arta began to move stealthily towards the door he had indicated.

Then several things happened at once. There was a scuttling of legs from behind an old atom car, and a blast of fire. The car started to burn.

Bryan slipped her hand.

A giant ant appeared from behind the smoking vehicle, clashing its mandibles angrily.

"_Bryan!" _Arta screamed. He was running back the way they had come.

Arta could hear the roar of the flames around the car, and the equation between heat and fissile material suddenly came together in her mind. She turned, and it seemed like she was moving in slow motion. Ahead of her she could see the side of the diner, only feet away, and as she launched herself through a gap in the shattered windows, she heard the blast of the explosion behind her. The small building rocked, and fragments of burning metal tore through its windows. Arta cowered on the floor, covering her face with her arms, as debris showered over her.

After only moments of terror, she gingerly regained her feet, looked out on the scene.

A mushroom cloud was still rising through the air above where the car had been. The street was littered with wreckage, as well as small pieces of chitinous material, all that remained of the giant ant. Bryan was nowhere to be seen.

"_Bryan?"_ she called tremulously. There was no reply, and she'd somehow known there would be none. A sob rose in her throat.

_Why wherever I go must I always bring death with me? Why can't it be life for once? Why, oh God, why?_

_

* * *

_

"Looks like you've been on quite a journey." Moira Brown regarded Arta from across the counter of _Craterside Supplies. _Her leather jacket was dusty and torn in several places, and her jumpsuit trousers were sadly frayed. When she removed her riot helmet, Moira could see that her face was begrimed and sweaty, her hair matted and dirty. And there was something else, something in her eyes. Moira decided she would rather think happy thoughts than try to deal with whatever was there.

Arta made no response to Moira's comment. Instead she removed several objects from her pockets, and dropped them, a little heavily Moira thought, onto the counter. They included a hand grenade, some weapon parts and a number of syringes.

When she had finished, Arta folded her arms, and stared at Moira in silence. A little apprehensively, Moira stared right back.

Eventually she assayed a smile. "Well, I see you've brought me some things to trade. And how did things go in that Supa Dupa Mart?"

Arta seemed to consider. Then, in a voice drained of emotion, she replied, "It was full of Raiders, some dead some not. As far as I know, it still is."

"Oh, how disappointing! I imagine then that you didn't find any of the food or drugs we were hoping for."

Arta tapped the syringes. "I found some drugs. I didn't find any food, wholesome or otherwise. I was a little occupied with not getting my arse raped or blown to pieces."

"Oh .. er .. well." Moira shuffled uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, but as a business woman and research scientist, I have to keep strictly to whatever deals I make. Otherwise … things just wouldn't work out, you see. So I can't give you the Vault armoured suit. Unless … " she added quickly, "…you've found some other way to pay me for it."

Arta leaned forward across the counter. Moira sensed she was repressing some violent emotion, and felt grateful for it. Even so her voice sounded strained and cracked.

"I've had, as you've said, quite a journey," she said. "I've been shot at, hit over the head, chased by Supermutants and Mirelurks, and nearly blown sky high. I've had to watch while people of my acquaintance were fed to Mole rats or forced to swim an irradiated river. I'm hungry and I'm very tired. And you're telling me that's all been for nothing."

She looked round. The mercenary was standing next to her, his assault rifle to hand. Arta was surprised to see a trace of sympathy in his eyes.

"If I were you …" he said, tapping the gun barrel meaningfully. "I'd take a step backwards, and draw a deep breath."

Moira thought for a moment the Vault girl was about to do something upsetting, like burst into tears or even hit the man. She was relieved when Arta did no more than roll her eyes. Moira wished everyone could be as happy as she was most of the time, it would be far less trouble.

"No need to get upset," she said. "I didn't say it was _all_ for nothing. You've found some drugs and shared some … interesting experiences. So a reward is definitely called for. You're welcome to one of my most useful inventions: a food purifier. It allows you to extract the maximum goodness out of anything consumable. Sure if it's irradiated it remains so, but the more nutritional it is, the less of it you need to eat, okay?"

Arta looked at the cumbersome device sceptically. "Does it actually work?"

"Of course! Mmmm, at times the flavour of the food is … not quite what it should be. But, apart from that minor detail, it works like a dream. A good dream, that is."

Arta snatched up the purifier. "Why didn't you mention this before you sent me on a futile quest for pure food?"

Moira shook her head. "You know with all the experiments I have to do, things get a little muddled up in my head. One thing drives out another, you know how it is." In a more cheerful voice, she continued, "So are you ready to continue with some more research? You mentioned swimming an irradiated river? I have something right up your alley then." Ignoring Arta's obvious lack of enthusiasm, she rushed on. "Now I just need you to contract a _little _bit of radiation poisoning so I can study its effects." Noticing Arta stepping rapidly backwards, she added, "Oh, not a deadly dose, of course! And I'll be ready to fix you up with my home-made radiation detox; it begins with some brahmin milk and …"

Arta was already backing away towards the door, hugging the purifier protectively. "Keep away from me crazy woman!" she shouted. "Do you realise how absolutely insane that sounds?"

"Well, no it doesn't. It's all in the interests of science and for the good of humanity!"

"I won't become your human guinea-pig, and especially not an irradiated one. Go do your own fucking experiments on yourself, you nutjob!"

"Well really, there's no need for …" The door slammed.

Moira shook her head and tutted. Half to her bodyguard, half to herself, she said, with an attempt at conviction "She'll come back. They always come back."

The mercenary remained impassively silent.

* * *

Evening came to Megaton as a relief from the harshness of the sun's heat and light, casting a welcome shade over its shanty structures, shrouding its imperfections and infusing its many terraces with an air of mystery. Sounds seemed to become softer as though the lengthening shadows could somehow gentle them. As she moved amongst the inhabitants gathered to trade or socialise or indulge in disparate vices, Arta wished for something like the peace of twilight to descend on her. Instead she was reminded only of her failures: of the people she had been unable to save or help, of the tasks she had left uncompleted, of her lack of food or shelter or rest. Of being dirty and hungry and destitute.

She looked up to see Manya sitting on her terrace. She was using the last of the light to read to two small children, a girl with a ribbon in her hair, and a sturdy looking boy. Arta thought of Bryan, and tears misted her eyes.

"_Revelation Chapter Eight," _Manya read. _"And when he had opened the Seventh Seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour. And I saw the seven angels that stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets._

_The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth; and the third part of the trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up._

_And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain of fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood; and the third part of the creatures that were in the sea, and had life, died. And the third part of the ships were destroyed._

_And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the rivers and upon the fountains of the waters. And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood, and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."_

Manya closed the book. "We'll read some more tomorrow," she said.

"Gosh, that was scary Manya," the small girl said. "Could something like that ever happen?"

"Aw," the boy said. "I wanted to hear about the other angels."

"I think we've had quite enough angels for one day, don't you?" Manya said sternly. As she rose, her eyes were cast downwards to rest on Arta's. The Vault woman shivered and turned away. She thought she had heard a voice thunder, _'Woe, woe to the inhabitants of the earth!' _but it mingled with the cry of Confessor Cromwell, standing in the pool next to the Atomic bomb.

"Behold he is coming with the clouds, and every eye shall be blind with his glory!"

Arta let her eyes wander amongst the gathering crowd. She felt the urgent need for a drink, for more than one drink. The meagre spoils of her expedition would at least pay for an evening in the comfort of _Moriarty's_.

Her casual surveillance picked out a figure leaning on the rail of one of the houses nearest the crater, his pale, old-fashioned clothes looking ghostly in the twilight. Arta realised this was one of the rare occasions that Mr. Burke had chosen to appear outside of _Moriarty's _or his own house. He paused to resettle his horned-rimmed glasses, and Arta felt his gaze fall upon her like a searchlight. It struck her that he watched people in the manner the director of a play observes his actors performing their parts.

Into her head came a strange image that seemed drawn from childhood memories of someone reading to her as Manya had done. _A rider upon a pale horse_. It remained in her mind like a warning.

When she looked again, Burke had gone.

* * *

*This might be a good point in the story to address readers' concerns about its scope and where its going. You may have noticed by now that Arta has finished none of the game's quests outside of the Vault. This is because the story isn't about completing quests, nor is it about following the game's story line in any predictable way. My intention as pretty clearly stated in the summary is to portray an inexperienced but resourceful young woman facing the trials of the Fallout World. I would prefer to be judged on whether I have succeeded in writing a good Fallout fiction, rather than which quests, major or minor have been included. My promise to you is to try my best to bring the story to a satisfactory conclusion in whatever way seems most appropriate to achieving these goals.

As far as this chapter goes, some of you may have noted that Bryan Wilks said his father went to find Dr Lesko with William Brandice. In the game, Fred Wilks (spoiler warning) is lying dead in his house, whereas Brandice's body is in the Metro. I must say that I found it difficult to believe Bryan wouldn't try to go back to his own house to find his dad. In fact he spends much of the quest hiding in a Pulowski Shelter just across the road from it. Perhaps he feared what he might find, but somehow I don't see a child thinking like that. If he thought his dad might be there, he'd go and look. So it seems more credible that Fred is elsewhere, whether alive or dead.

The Supermutant's 'joke' is how I thought I heard it. Its humour seems to lie in the fact it isn't 'funny'.*


	16. The Hunt

Ch 16 The Hunt

Jenny Stahl leaned casually against the rickety wall of _The Brass Lantern_ and watched her latest customer huddled at the stall outside, picking unenthusiastically at a bowl of noodles. Jenny was used to her clients not looking their best at this hour of the day, especially after spending plenty of caps at Moriarty's the night before. Nevertheless she couldn't help contrast the customer's sad present state with her appearance when they'd first met. Then the woman from the Vault had looked bright-eyed, confident, and relatively clean and fresh. Now she was anything but: her eyes blank, yellowed and bloodshot, her hair bedraggled, her skin and clothing stained with dirt and sweat. Jenny was too far away to tell whether she also smelt bad, but thought it quite likely. _Welcome to the Wasteland, you'd better get used to it. Staying clean on the outside takes a lot of effort. And as for the inside …_

Jenny's curiosity was mildly piqued by the box-like device which Arta was clutching to herself with one arm, as though it were a plushy, using her free hand to fork the noodles. To the extent that Jenny decided to make conversation, adopting the non-judgemental, faintly smiling expression which usually served to give her customers the impression that she sympathised with their concerns.

"You look like you've had a rough night," she suggested.

"Not really." Arta squinted indifferently into the slanting rays of the morning sun. "Eight hours or so passing without being ambushed or shot at is quite refreshing on the whole."

Jenny gave a short laugh. "Keep that sense of humour, it'll serve you well!"

Arta blinked wearily. "I wasn't trying to be funny."

Jenny maintained her air of bland friendliness. "Fancy a drink to wash down the noodles?"

Arta shook her head. "Even if I did feel like it, I've spent all my caps."

"Oh." Jenny decided to favour Arta with a sympathetic-looking glance. "So that's the way it is. Well we sometimes offer a discount to customers in difficulties. Maybe that old box in exchange for some Nuka-cola, for example."

Arta looked down at the device as though she'd just realised she was holding it. "I don't think that would qualify as a discount. This is quite a valuable item. A processor which makes food more nutritious, I bet you'd find that quite useful."

"That would be quite a trick." Jenny agreed. "So how come you're not using it now?"

Arta yawned. "I'd forgotten. I only obtained it yesterday."

"Why not give it a try?"

"I will." Arta tipped some noodles into the funnel set on top of the box, then pressed a switch. There was a whirring sound, and semi-liquid goo started to trickle from a nozzle into a tray at the bottom.

The two women exchanged glances. After a moment's hesitation, Jenny stuck a finger in the substance, and licked it. She grimaced. "It tastes like decayed Mutfruit. Not good."

Arta cautiously tried a lick. "Ugh!" Screwing up her face, she asked, "Do you reckon its any better for you?"

Jenny shrugged. "It's hard to say, isn't it? It sure doesn't _taste _any better." She scratched her chin. "Like I said, for a Nuka-cola, I'll take it off your hands. Maybe I can fix it so that it makes smoothies or something."

"You've got a deal. No point hanging on to junk when I'm hungry and thirsty is there? And it's the only thing I've got left apart from weapons, medicine and clothing."

Jenny put Moira's invention under the counter, and poured a Nuka-cola into a glass. "Ice and lemon? Sorry, awful joke." She set the glass in front of Arta. "So things are that bad then?"

Arta sipped her drink. "They are. I literally don't know where my next meal's coming from."

Jenny pursed her lips. "That's too bad. I wish I could help more, but I've got a business to run, and we aren't hiring right now. All I can do is trade any stuff you can lay your hands on."

Arta shook her head. "I doubt you'll get that opportunity. If I don't starve then the Wastes will get me. I don't have the firepower and protection to survive out there. I've only escaped death so far by sheer luck."

"You and plenty of others then. While it's true I've had to work hard for the security I enjoy, I've had my own escapes by a hair's breadth. For most people it's the luck of the herd; maybe you won't be the one picked out to be killed this time."

Arta said sadly, "It was always my dream to escape from the Vault. I thought that I'd prepared myself so well. But I could never have imagined what the world outside was like in reality: how terrible, and how beautiful." Jenny raised her eyebrows, and Arta went on, "Now I'm just a roll of the dice away from death, and from losing everything I've fought so hard for. To check out like this, well it doesn't seem right." Her voice took on a new note of determination. "I won't give up. I'll do anything I can to give myself the best possible chance of survival. Whatever it takes."

Jenny looking on noticed that a smouldering fire had awakened in Arta's eyes. _It seems like she really means this! There even appears something dangerous about her. Unless it's the drink talking._

Keeping her voice level, Jenny said, "Those are fine sentiments if you can match them with actions." She realised she'd gone somewhat beyond her role as bland barkeep and confidant.

Arta sighed. "If only I knew _what _was the best course of action. I don't want to rush into something close to suicide like I've already done."

Jenny asked, "You want some advice? You may not like it, but you can take or leave it." Arta nodded. "Since Silver ran away from _Moriarty's_, there's been a vacancy for someone to work alongside Nova … entertaining the customers. The only qualifications are a reasonably presentable appearance and not being too fussy about the downsides of the job."

_Why is everyone so keen for me to whore myself? _Arta thought. _They probably find some amusement in the idea of seeing the 'innocent' Vault girl brought so low. _She gave Jenny a suspicious look. Was she secretly mocking her under the guise of helpful advice? She imagined her getting together with Lucy and other town gossips to sneer at her misfortune. _"There goes Artemesia Wendell. She fancied herself a Vault Princess, but now she's reduced to opening her legs for dirty old men. How droll!"_

She said, "I suppose it looks like I'm desperate enough to do that. But Moriarty seems to treat Nova and Gob like virtual slaves. They have almost no lives of their own. I don't want to swap one form of oppression for another. Otherwise I might as well be dead."

Jenny shrugged again. "I said you might not like to hear it. I'm assuming then you don't want to be a slave? And I hope you're not considering becoming a slaver?" Arta shook her head. "I take it you have no profession like a doctor say? No. Well most people make their living through scavenging or hunting or trading. Those all require equipment or caps, and that's exactly what you say you lack." She looked down and began clearing the dishes.

Arta however was interested. She leaned forward over the counter. "You mentioned hunting? How does that work?"

Jenny said indifferently, "It's probably a little less dangerous than some of the other options. The rewards aren't much, unless you're after real big game like Yao Guai, Giant Radscorpions or Mirelurks and even then not great. But you can probably earn enough to keep yourself alive at least. Obviously though it involves going into the Wastes, and you know the risks of that by now."

Arta asked, "What are Yao Guai?"

"Mutant black bears. If you see one, you're best trying to hide and hope it doesn't see or smell you. They're incredibly fast and can crush or slash open your arm, leg or head in a single blow. And I'm told they're pretty hard to kill even with powerful weapons. The same goes for Radscorpions. They aren't so mobile, but their venom's lethal. I'd stick to smaller game like mole rats, giant ants and so on. You shouldn't need to go far to find them. Maybe if you ask around, you'll get some tips where to look."

Arta was about to ask another question, when she noticed a stocky figure in dark-hued combat armour descending one of the stairways nearby. In typical fashion he seemed to expect each and every person he encountered to get out of his way, and responded with curses on anyone who didn't, especially if they had the temerity to actually address him. Thus though he maintained an easy stroll, his progress was seldom interrupted, continuing steady and swift, like the march of fate.

Until he reached the crater itself. Then he seemed to hesitate, and paused near Confessor Cromwell, as though listening to his morning sermon. But Arta could sense his glance darting uneasily in the direction of herself and Jenny. Turning back, she noticed the bartender of _The Brass Lantern _had also observed the arrival of one of Megaton's least courteous defenders. The smile had gone from her face, and Arta discerned a barely perceptible tension in her movements.

Leaning forward as though to address Arta confidentially, she said in a lowered voice, "I believe you and Jericho are … acquainted."

_What's all this about? _Arta merely nodded.

Still remaining close, and almost whispering, Jenny continued, "So … what do you think of him … I mean, as a person?"

_This isn't an invitation to engage in 'girl talk', is it? _But Arta could see no levity in Jenny's expression. She said, "I think that people tend to judge him harshly. He comes across as very spiky, but I believe there's more to him than that."

Jenny raised her eyebrows again. "Really? Is that why you spent the night in his shack?"

_Gossip again! Why do I seem to attract it? I suppose though that I wasn't exactly discreet, half of Megaton must have heard me hollering!_

Not wanting to feed Jenny any more information she could turn to scandal, Arta said, "Oh, so you heard about that, did you?"

Jenny gave a cynical smile. "Megaton may be bigger than some Wasteland communities, but it still has that small town mentality. Not much goes unnoticed, and word gets around pretty quick." Watching Arta closely, she asked, "So what was he like?"

"Excuse me?"

Jenny's voice was very soft now, and though she was still smiling, Arta thought she could sense hostility in her eyes. "I meant while you were there. How did he behave towards you?"

Arta stole a glance towards Jericho. He still hadn't moved from his position. _Does he have any idea we're talking about him?_

She said, "I don't quite understand."

In a whisper, Jenny asked, "Did he … _touch_ you, in any way?"

Arta found herself increasingly fascinated by Jenny's intent blue eyes, now so very close to her own.

"No. No, he didn't."

Jenny expelled a breath almost like a hiss. She sounded agitated, as though Arta had somehow fluffed her expected lines. "Not at all? You know, don't you, he used to be a Raider?"

With an effort, Arta tore her gaze away from Jenny's, flicking it across the crater. Jericho was looking at her directly, and his eyes seemed narrowed.

"I know. And he behaved to me throughout … like a perfect gentleman."

Jenny laughed, "Well that's the first time I've ever heard him called that!"

Still looking at Jericho, Arta said coldly, "You asked me my opinion of him. I've given it."

"Yes, and I find it a little surprising. Considering he's a murderer … and a rapist."

For a moment Arta thought she was back in the Vault, with Suzy forcing her into a corner she couldn't escape from. But something was different here. When Jenny spoke the word _'rapist', _the edge of hysteria in her voice could not be disguised.

Jericho finally chose to advance to the bar, warily, like a man approaching the lair of a wild beast. He took a place on a stool next to Arta.

Returning to her professional air, Jenny asked briskly, "What'll it be?"

"The usual." His eyes flickered from the bartender to Arta. "How's it going, kid?"

The woman from the Vault had already dismounted her stool, and was walking away

* * *

After a few enquiries around town, Arta managed to locate a sun-browned old hunter, who was more than willing to talk to her about his profession.

"Yes, missy." He plucked thoughtfully at his white beard. "There's plenty of tales I could tell you. I've hunted 'em all in my time, Guai, Lurks, Scorps. Even had a rumble with a Death Claw. Just as well it was lame at the time, or I wouldn't be here, hee, hee!"

Arta was eventually able to encourage him to move on from reminiscing to discussing the practicalities.

"Now in my experience your weapon of choice should always be the hunting rifle, because it allows you to keep an eye out for all the trouble that's out there to find you. Look through a sniper scope and you're focused only on one target. So you miss the _other _Mole rat or Guai or whatever that's creeping up on you. Or a bunch of Raiders or Supermutants might decide to join the party. But to hunt _big _game, well, you'll need a customised rifle or a sniper. An ordinary one just won't be powerful enough. Unfortunately the skill to customise a rifle's a difficult one, so they're very rare." He tapped the weapon slung from his back. "Even if I was inclined to sell you this one, I doubt you could afford it."

Arta showed him her Beretta. "Well now, I have to say this pistol's in fine condition. While I wouldn't recommend it for hunting, if it's the only weapon you've got a skill in, then it should be possible to use it, but only for small game like dogs, rats or ants. See hunting animals ain't like going up against humans and such like. Get yourself in a good position where they can't get to you, and a lot of the time you'll be safe. Even a fair size rock'll do for most critters, 'cept for bloat flies and Guai. Those nasty bears can climb real good.

Apart from watching for them, your main problems are gonna be twofold. Firstly to make a good kill with a pistol you gotta be close. That's partly a matter of stalking, which is a skill you've gotta learn anyway. You don't want to waste a lot of bullets 'cos you'll never make money that way. Also if they're running away, shooting 'em in the leg can be tricky.

T'other one's a bit obvious. Should you come across any other kind of trouble, a pistol may not hack it for you. Like I said, keep your eyes peeled at all times.

So then, you just need a knife for butchery, and a game bag, and you're in business."

Arta tried wheedling the last two items out of him by shameless use of her feminine charm, but was eventually forced to trade one of the drugs she'd found at the Mart. "This here's called _Psycho_. Gets you charged up so you deal out more damage. If I had to choose, I'd keep the Jet, 'cos extra speed helps more in desperate straits. Maybe you won't need it. Ain't nothing wrong with hoping anyway."

* * *

"Can I interest you in anything?" the Scavenger asked. His skin was so tanned by the sun of the deep Wastes that it had come to resemble leather hide, and with goggles and a scarf masking his face, Arta could only guess at his race. He wore the grey cap and many-pocketed garments favoured by traders, further carrying capacity being provided by a heavily loaded brahmin. One of the beast of burden's panniers bore a disk-shaped logo inscribed with the legend _Hero4hire_. The Scavenger's other travelling companion, or perhaps protection, was a heavy-set Alsatian. Its tail was wagging, but its tongue lolled to show sharp teeth.

"Not at the moment, thank you," Arta replied politely. "I'm out hunting, but I haven't shot anything so far today."

"Well, if you do bag something, I'll be here or hereabouts, and I'll gladly trade it. I've got 10 mm ammo, for instance, as well as the shells to go with this baby." The Scavenger tapped the sawn-off shotgun he carried. Arta got the impression he was discreetly reminding her he was in possession of a powerful firearm. "Grenades too, though you'll need a couple of Radscorpion poison glands to buy even one."

"I'll see what I can come up with," Arta promised. They stood amongst the rocky outcroppings east of Megaton, where the old hunter had suggested Arta could begin following in his footsteps. Supposedly it was the haunt of Mole rats and giant ants, with larger predators like Yao Guai a less common occurrence. There were also plenty of opportunities for concealment and refuge amongst the crags. Yet though the mid-morning sun shone down, Arta had thus far found nothing but this Scavenger and his caravan.

He gave a casual nod. "I reckon I saw some of them ratties a bit further west of here. You might try over that way."

"Thank you," Arta said. She watched his caravan as it meandered between the granite cliffs, thinking of the wealth it represented. If only she could … snapping out of the daydream, she refocused herself on her current task. _Keep your eyes peeled at all times._

She had by now become accustomed to the technique of moving carefully and quietly from one outcropping of rock to another, all the while watching for potential dangers or quarry. As time had passed and nothing threatening or promising had appeared, it became more and more difficult to remain alert and avoid complacency. She had to remind herself she was only an instant away from becoming another corpse rotting in the Wasteland sun.

She felt the abrasive touch of the rough basalt on her fingers, as she pulled herself to the top of one of the higher crags. For a moment she saw only the devil's playground of broken rocks beyond, then her eyes caught a glimpse of movement. A bald, leathery head, long whiskers twitching, beak-like mouth ruminating.

Snuggling down into better concealment, she wet and held up a finger, as the old man had advised. The Mole rat was up wind from her. She raised and levelled the Beretta, excitement running through her, the ancient thrill of the hunter stalking prey. Preliminary sighting showed that the shot was extremely difficult from her current position. It would be much better to approach the smaller clump of rocks in front of the creature.

Carefully she picked her way to the bottom of the cliff. Her rubber-soled Vault boots served her well, along with the childhood games of sneaking she had played, and she advanced to the smaller outcropping without any perceptible sound. Cautiously she raised her head and pistol above the rock.

The Mole Rat was very close; she could see its eyes roving around. She sighted instinctively on the head, and fired twice. Instantly the creature rolled over and lay still.

Elated with her easy success, Arta scrambled over the rocks. She took a moment to contemplate the ugliness and bulk of the corpse she'd created, and even ventured to place a boot upon its fleshy flank. Then she prepared herself for the necessary but unpleasant task. Cutting up the creature would be by no means as straightforward as killing it had been.

A snuffling sound nearby warned her. Two more Mole rats had been alerted by the fate of the first, and were racing towards her. With almost no time to think or react, Arta simply raised her gun and fired repeatedly at the onrushing creatures. Her first bullets struck one of the mutant rats' legs, slowing it. She then concentrated her fire on the other, hitting first the torso, then the head. It fell crashing to the ground, but the wounded one was now almost upon her.

Arta turned and jumped up onto the rock, hoping to shake off her pursuer for long enough to kill it. Instead it dashed around the rock, confusing her aim. Before she could readjust, the creature had leapt up next to her, bringing with it a vile stench. As Arta pointed down her weapon and fired a bullet into its brain, the Mole rat's jaws closed on her leg.

She shrieked. The pain was worse than any she had experienced before, in a life consisting mostly of small accidents: stubbing a toe, bumping her funny bone, jamming a finger in a door or hitting it with a hammer. It was as though a dozen hot knives had stabbed into her leg and held it like a vice. Screaming hysterically, she let off two more shots, but the creature still held her in a death grip.

The agony was excruciating. Unimaginable in her worst dreams, it seemed impossible to bear. Grimly holding onto to consciousness, she groped for her skinning knife, and tried to prize apart the jaws. They remained closed, and she sobbed and howled like an animal in a trap. She tried again, and this time their grip weakened slightly. Suddenly her foot came free, and she cried out with relief, but also with the continuing pain. Her foot was black with bruises and she was horrified to see her torn flesh flowing with blood. She fumbled in her pockets, clumsily pulling out the first hypodermic she could find, which happened to be a stimpak. Her hands were shaking so much, she could barely find a vein to plunge it into. Then she searched frantically again, this time looking for Med-X. As the second needle entered her leg, she finally felt the beginning of relief. The hammering of her heart and hyperventilation of her lungs began to subside, the hot ring of pain fading to be replaced by a blessed, cool numbness.

She was gradually able to regain awareness of her situation. Her throat was raw from screaming and crying, and she blinked away the tears from her eyes. The stimpak was working its technological miracle, boosting the natural healing mechanisms to rapidly repair the damaged tissues and staunch the flow of blood. It would even, in the long run, regenerate skin, muscle and bone. For the moment though, the flesh was still raw and exposed.

Scanning the surrounding Wastes in every direction, Arta could see no further sign of threat, animal or human. Working quickly, all the time glancing around her, she brought out some bandages she'd found in Silver's shack, and used them to bind her foot. Then she carefully tried a step. Though her leg was a little stiff, she was amazed to find she could put her full weight on it without discomfort.

She looked down at the gross corpse of the Mole Rat. Apart from a juvenile urge to slash at the thing that had caused her such agony, any idea of seriously butchering it had been submerged beneath a wave of sickness and lethargy. All she wanted was to get away as quickly as possible from the place of her ordeal, to escape the nagging reminder of her failure. She knew she had blundered badly. Childishly pleased with herself, she had neglected to properly reconnoitre the area. The resulting ambush had caused her to use drugs of a value far exceeding the probable cost of the meat she could've obtained, had she felt motivated to collect it. Even the fact that she had survived and recovered could not console or shake her from these demoralising thoughts. The hunting trip had been another humiliating letdown, a total fiasco.

Wrapped in a cloud of gloom, she began to pick her way through the higher crags towards the distant walls of Megaton, faintly gleaming in the midday sun. Her home, her refuge. _Stop fooling yourself, Arta. You don't live there; you don't have a house or even a bed. They'll let you die, just like the poor water beggar, and in a little time you'll be forgotten._

At certain points in her journey along the ridge, she caught sight of the Scavenger, strolling between the rock formations with his placid beast of burden, the dog loping by his side. She considered whether she should approach him, perhaps offer to tell him about the dead Mole rats for a few caps or a minor item. Then she felt embarrassed. He surely couldn't have acquired those full panniers, and the beasts that accompanied them, by merely taking the petty leavings of others. And even if he had, he would scornfully reject them now. She would make herself look … well, she _was_ desperate, wasn't she?

Almost unconsciously she fell into a stealthy movement pattern, replaying her childhood game. If she were shadowing a quarry, this was how she would move to keep out of sight. She couldn't tell whether the man or his animals were aware of her presence, but if so they gave no sign. It was a kind of rehearsal for the real thing. She would stay low behind _this_ ridge, then sneak to _this _cleft in the rock to intercept them again. She would certainly have the drop on them in a firefight from that position. The elevated viewpoint would give her an excellent line of sight aiming downwards. The Scavenger, on the other hand, would find it difficult to aim his weapon upwards into the bright sun, especially at an enemy presenting only a small target. And, of course, his guard dog would be no use to him.

Wait, what was she thinking? She wasn't actually contemplating ambushing someone and killing them for their possessions? Someone who'd done her no harm, had actually given her helpful advice. What kind of twisted state of mind had she …?

_Why not, Arta? _That was the clear calm voice in her mind, the one that usually gave her rational, dispassionate advice.

_Because it's murder. I'm not a murderer._

_Just try to think about it logically. You just admitted you're desperate. You are. This isn't about morality or sentimental feelings. It's about survival._

Arta tried not to listen to the voice, tried to pretend it belonged to someone else, some other callous, cynical person. Like Silver, or Nova or Jericho, or … Mei Wong even. But it continued insistently.

_You said yourself that history taught you survival is more important than morality. Remember what you said to Dad about the ruthless behaviour of Winston Churchill and Abraham Lincoln?_

_I remember._ _But it … it's not the same thing!_

_How is it any different? You have a golden opportunity. To take all the things you need to survive. That man's goods will pay for the better weapons and armour necessary for survival in the Wastes. So you don't have to live a hand to mouth existence on the brink of a miserable, lonely death. You'll be well equipped and well fed. Eventually you'll be able to buy your own house. Why, Burke might even let you into Tenpenny Towers! You'll have proved to him you've got the right qualities._

_The right qualities? The qualities of a cutthroat, a Raider! And Burke's a despicable human being! I'm not a murderer!_

_But you're a survivor! You've survived all this time. The others from the Vault, like Butch and Suzy and stupid Freddie Gomez. They would have given up and died by now. You haven't given up. You said you wouldn't. But if you miss this chance, you may as well slit your throat and be done._

The voice of reason had become more and more firmly persuasive. The one with which she argued with it weaker.

_But … what would Dad think?_

_He left you, Arta. He left you in the Vault, which he knew you hated, and escaped by himself. He never even told you why. You're all alone now, and he can't help you. There's no one that will help you except yourself._

_No. No, I can't do it!_

_Yes. Yes you can!_

While this internal debate carried on, Arta continued to play her stalking game, shadowing the Scavenger and his caravan from the height of the ridge. She tried to convince herself that it was still only that – a game. When it came down to it, surely she couldn't make herself kill an innocent human being?

_Innocent human being? _the voice mocked. _C'mon, Arta, you know better! How many 'innocent' Wastelanders have you met recently?_

The Scavenger was about to pass through a narrow defile, not far from the walls of Megaton itself. Arta could see that within the terms of her game this would be the perfect opportunity to ambush him.

_I'll be hidden until the last moment. When he passes in front of that withered tree, I'll have a clear sight from above. If I fire several times, there's a good chance of getting a headshot. He'll never know what hit him._

She moved to crouch in a gap between the rocks, the black, leafless trunk not far below. She could hear the faint jingling of the brahmin's harness, and the slow clop of hooves on rock.

_You must have your gun ready to fire the moment he appears, or you'll lose surprise._

As though in a dream, she raised her Beretta in both hands, sighting towards the tree.

_You've got to do it now! This is your last chance!_

The Scavenger's grey cap and many-pocketed upper torso came into view. His head was lowered.

Had she fired? Had she really fired? Or was that noise the thundering of her heart?

The rocks were still echoing with the roar of the gun, the demented, manic barking of the dog, the pounding hooves of the brahmin as it bolted, and the Scavenger's shout of rage and fright.

"_Shit_! Holy shit, I'm hit!"

It seemed that Arta's body was operating under automatic control. Ignoring the Scavenger's moans of pain, she swivelled and calmly aimed two more shots at the fleeing brahmin's legs. It stumbled, half-fell, and then began to run aimlessly in circles.

Below the Scavenger was swaying as though drunk. The first bullet, targeted at his head, had struck his right breast instead. A patch of red was spreading from between his fingers, as he clutched his chest. The second had either struck the same location or missed entirely.

Still looking towards the brahmin, Arta was aware with peripheral vision that the sawn-off was pointing waveringly in her general direction. She jerked backwards.

"Fuck you, bitch!"

There was a dull crump, and Arta felt fierce stings in her leg and flank like the attack of a swarm of bees. The lingering effects of the Med-X kept the pain from becoming unendurable but couldn't prevent the psychological shock. Horror-struck Arta crouched down behind the cover of the bluffs, cold sweat beading her brow. _Oh, my god, I've been shot! _She felt in panic for her wounds. Shotgun pellets had torn into her jacket. Some had buried themselves in the hard leather, but at least half a dozen had penetrated her left torso and thigh. She could feel the warm slick wetness of the bleeding. She sobbed in fear.

"How's that for you, you little hell-cat? Can't stand the sight of your own blood?"

Arta was already plunging another stimpak into the area just above her thigh. She could hear the Scavenger's continued groaning over the savage barking of his dog, and wondered whether he was also healing himself.

"Now try to hide from this!" Something clinked over the cliff and bounced away. Arta flattened herself. There was a blast, and fragments of metal and rock flew over her head.

She waited, holding her breath, fearing a second grenade throw that might not fall harmlessly into a depression, as the first had done. None came. She continued to stay motionless and quiet.

"Did that get you, bitch? That'll teach you not to mess with Mohandas G Khan. Hey, Jafar, is she still up there?" A growl followed this inquiry. "Tryin' to play dead, but she can't fool us, can she boy?"

Arta rolled sideways twice, then pulled herself up onto one knee. She couldn't afford to wait for more grenades. She took out the phial of Jet, and injected it into her arm.

As the speed rush hit her, she rose to her feet. Mohandas Khan was crouching down, in the act of sliding a shell into his shotgun. Deliberately Arta took aim at the arm he was using. The Beretta spat fire four times. On the second shot, the Scavenger clutched his stomach, on the fourth his right arm, dropping the shotgun.

He gave a yell of panic. "Shit, I'm outa here!"

As he ran, Arta shot again, this time low at the legs. She hit once, before the Scavenger took cover behind the tree. The final bullet in her clip pinged off the trunk, and she ducked down to reload.

When she stood up again, she realised Mohandas Khan had used the opportunity to make a break for the nearest clump of boulders. He was trying to limp as fast as possible, his dog running at his heels. Arta fired wild shots. The dog gave a whimper, and began to run as lame as its master.

The Scavenger was now hiding behind the rocks, his dog lying beside him. Arta realised she would have to leave the cover of the cliffs to finish the job. She found a place where she could scramble down, slipping and sliding on the loose scree in her haste. The pain in her side and thigh was worsening but she ignored it. Her thoughts were in chaos, the chemicals surging through her body speeding her heart, brain and lungs, her breaths coming in huge pants. _How badly is he wounded? Does he have another gun? What if he escapes? Then everyone in Megaton will know what I've done. I can't let that happen. _

She advanced into the open. The dog was whining, and perhaps trying to lick its concealed master. But when Arta approached it turned, growling deep in its throat. As she got closer, it backed away, baring its teeth, and barking warningly. She could see its eyes, fierce and yet strangely appealing.

She shot it right between them. With a final whimper it lay down dead.

She was hyperventilating uncontrollably. Slowly she edged sideways, skirting the boulders. More and more of the Scavenger came into view. Like her he was breathing hard, squatting down, his arms held protectively over his head. He did not appear to be armed, and was bleeding from several wounds.

He raised one of his arms towards her, fingers spread in a shielding gesture. His voice was low and terrified.

"Please, don't kill me. I'll give you all my stuff, I swear. Please, I don't want to die."

Arta took four panting breaths, then fired. The shot, aimed at the head, instead struck the man's right palm, piercing it in the centre. He gave a roar of rage.

"Goddamn you bitch!" He turned towards her, drawing a long serrated blade from his belt, one bloodied arm still shielding his head.

She shot him through the heart, twice. A choking sob came from his lips, and he plunged forward like a swimmer into deep water.

Arta moved cautiously forward to touch his head with her foot. He did not move. Still gasping for air, she cast frantically around, and eventually located the sawn-off lying near the cliffs. Not far away, the brahmin stood, its two heads lowered in seeming dejection. When it saw her walking forward, it gave a reproving moo, but did not try to run away.

She loaded another shell into the shotgun, pressed it between the two bovine heads, braced herself and pulled the trigger. The cow skulls exploded in bloody chunks of meat, huge fountains of gore jetting from the twin necks.

She let fall the gun. Then she crouched down and started to vomit, over and over.

* * *

Doc Church regarded the young woman lying on his examination couch with professional detachment. Or rather with the same detachment that he'd come to view pretty much everyone he associated with. For Church keeping sentiment out of things had become a habit, and most of the time the strongest emotion he exhibited was intense irritation. People came and took up his time, asking him to patch them up, and then whining because they didn't want to pay for it. In short, they were a nuisance. Why couldn't they let him do his job, give him his money, _and shut the fuck up. _In fact just giving him the caps would do, but that was a little too much to hope for.

This patient thankfully looked less likely to waste his time by refusing to pay. He'd seen it plenty of times when he'd doctored for the slavers. Post-traumatic stress. That kind of wide-eyed, fearful look, an extreme sensitivity to one's surroundings. At Paradise Falls, it was often a clue that someone had been raped. That wasn't supposed to happen, as it was generally bad for business. Traumatised slaves were unproductive slaves. However slavers were not generally known for their attachment to morality, and many of them were extremely unpleasant individuals. For some the temptation to take a 'taste' of the goods became greater than their sense of discipline; that was to say their fear of Eulogy Jones' displeasure. Eulogy had often been prepared to turn a blind eye to occasional lapses, but he would sometimes make an example of someone, and Church was supposed to back him with his professional opinion. It hadn't made him very popular, and was one of his reasons for leaving the Falls and coming to Megaton. Too many enemies back there.

It was possible this woman had been raped, though it was equally likely to be something combat related. That was, after all, why she was here. Her lower left side was peppered with shotgun pellets. Church loved this kind of injury; internals were always good. Less likely to be fixed by an amateur or by do-it-yourself, money-stealing stimpaks. Only the professional expertise and equipment he could provide would do, and therefore the patient had no choice but to pay up or suffer horribly, and quite likely die as well.

He said, "You'll need to have these pellets removed, and that means surgery. I charge one hundred caps for basic operations, which completely covers the immediate costs. Post-operative drugs are extra. All money in advance please."

The woman grimaced, "One hundred caps, that's extortionate!"

_Here we go after all! But she looks too sick and apathetic to put up much protest._ He said abruptly, "I think you'll find it's the standard rate. In any case, I'm the only surgeon in town. It's your choice to pay or not. However the effect of leaving this shit in your body, especially when its near internal organs, will most likely be infection to start with, then …"

Angrily the woman interrupted, "Okay, okay, you've made your point! I've got over one hundred caps right here. Just get on with it quickly."

_Still some spirit left in her then. Or maybe it's another symptom of the psychological trauma. Well, I'm not exactly a psychiatrist, so I can't be sure. Pity, because I could earn plenty more caps that way. Sometimes PTSD goes away on its own, sometimes it doesn't._

He nodded curtly, and secured the caps in his safe. "Right, I'll have to knock you out, of course. Afterwards you'll need to rest a while. Drugs will make the post-op period more pleasant for you, which I can provide at extra cost."

He went to prepare the anesthetic. Another possible earner from time to time, especially with pretty young women. People would sometimes pay to … do things to them. While they were still unconscious.

He glanced calculatingly at the woman. Perhaps not worth the risk. There was always the slight chance the patient would wake up too soon, and this one looked potentially dangerous.

_She's already damaged enough in her head. I wouldn't want her to freak out on me._

* * *

_Even the fucking doctors in this town are greedy bastards! _Arta left the rough shack which served as Doc Church's clinic without bothering to bid the white-bearded physician farewell. She could scarcely restrain the urge to spit in his direction.

_One hundred and thirty caps of my hard-earned money! Almost all the loose change I got from … from … dammit! Even trading all the rest of the stuff, including the grenades, probably won't be enough to get all the things I need. Maybe I shouldn't have shot the brahmin. Sure it was lame, but it might've been worth something._

Arta climbed the steep steps to the platform on which _Craterside Supply _was located. She paused to watch the sun set, its orange glow reflecting from a huge spherical model of an atom hanging above the nearby church.

_Well at least I know how to go about getting myself caps. I just needed to get rid of those stupid notions that I had. Why be nice when people are such shit-bags anyway? Like Church, for example. That'll teach him to bleed me dry, the skinflint!_

With satisfaction, Arta's hand brushed the pocket in which she'd secured all the drugs she'd stolen from the clinic. It had been relatively easy to pretend she was still woozy from the anesthetic, then plunder the medical cabinets while Church's back was turned. He probably wouldn't discover the loss until later, and he'd never be sure enough to prove she'd been responsible. She would get away scot free, some compensation for her excessive medical bills.

_Where are you, Daddy?_

Arta shook her head. That annoying voice again. It kept coming back. She'd noticed it first not long after … dammit! It was so sickly sweet, and childish, a sugary little girl's voice. She wasn't a child who needed her daddy anymore. She could look after herself. So why did the voice ask that stupid question? It seemed whenever she started to think sensibly - about ways to make money for example – the little girl tones would chime in her mind.

"Are you okay, lady?" Arta jumped. This time the girl voice wasn't in her head. It was an actual child speaking to her. The same black-haired girl with the pink ribbon she'd seen Manya reading to about the Day of Judgement.

"I ... I'm fine." Arta felt less eager to interact with children than before, due to the persistent nagging of the voice. Still perhaps this small girl could be useful to her. Children often found things out after all.

Patting her affectionately on the head, she asked, "So what's your name?"

The girl looked up at her. "It's Maggie."

"Do you have any friends round here, Maggie?"

"Oh, yes. Billy Creel, he's kind of adopted me. And Manya and Nathan are always nice to me. Then, of course, I usually play with Harden, the Sheriff's son."

Adopting a cooing tone, Arta said, "I could be your friend too, Maggie. My name is Artemesia."

The girl looked a little doubtful. "I guess. Billy says I have to be careful talking to strangers, even if people seem nice. And I'm especially not allowed to talk to Mr. Jericho."

Arta said indulgently, "I'm sure Billy's just looking out for you, Maggie. But we can have a lot of fun together. Say, why don't we go call on Harden?"

"Oh, that sounds like a good idea!" Maggie gave a skip. "Usually I'm not allowed to go see him this late."

As they walked past the Water Processor towards the Simm's residence, Arta asked casually, "So you live with Billy then? Does he have a nice house with lots of things in it?"

"Mmmm, yes. He has quite a lot of old books and data disks which are fun to read. And a few toys for me to play with. And he always gets plenty of Nuka-cola, though Manya says its bad for my teeth. Most of the really cool stuff is in his safe in the floor … oh but I'm not supposed to tell people about that."

Arta said, "It's okay, Maggie, I won't tell anyone else. What's in it?"

"Well there's ammunition for his gun. He has a really big one, you know, because he's Sheriff Simm's deputy. Caps, of course. And … oh, we're here." She knocked on the door three times. After a short interval, the small boy Arta had seen before opened it. She now perceived he was a smaller edition of Lucas Simms, and that he kept a rather solemn expression.

"Hello Maggie." Shyly and somewhat warily he added, "Who's this?"

"This is my new friend, Artemesia. She's brought me to play with you."

"Oh, really." He regarded Arta from beneath dark brows. "Dad says I mustn't let anyone in while he's away, except for good friends, of course."

Maggie said, "But I'm your good friend, and Artemesia is mine. So that's okay, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Come in then."

Once inside, the two children immediately began playing at Regulators and Raiders, giving Arta a chance to look round. She was disappointed at the rather Spartan look of the place, considering Simms was an important citizen of Megaton. She could see mainly only cooking items and food. However the house had an upper gallery, where there were two intriguingly closed doors.

Addressing the children, she said, "Why don't we all play a game of hide and seek? Harden you close your eyes and count to one hundred; Maggie and I will hide."

While the boy was slowly and solemnly counting, Arta urged Maggie upstairs to hide behind one door, entering the other herself.

Again she was disappointed at the goods on display. The only object of fascination was a tiny plastic figure on a shelf. To her surprise, Arta realised it was a model of Vault Boy, the annoyingly cheery cartoon character which Vault tech had adopted for the purpose of instructional videos and advertising. The over-sized blonde head bobbed up and down as Arta touched it. How could the Sheriff have come to possess one?

In the hope of finding more obviously valuable items, she began rummaging through some boxes. Below she could hear Harden counting "Fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty …" Still plenty of time to case both rooms.

_Daddy, where are you?_

"Oh, shut up!" she snarled automatically.

A deep and resonant voice spoke from close behind her. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

She turned around. Lucas Simms stood at the door in his Regulator long coat and Stetson. And his assault rifle was ready in his hands.

* * *

*The encounter with the Scavenger is based very closely on an actual game event. While my moral dilemma was by no means as bad as Arta's (because I was playing a game), I still got the sense of committing a serious transgression compared to my previous behaviour. And my reasons for doing so, and the way I almost drifted into the combat, were similar to hers.

Diagnosis of PTSD (Post traumatic stress disorder) is more complex and difficult than Doc Church makes it out to be. But then he isn't a psychiatrist, and neither am I. So I'll just point out that this is fictional 'madness' and not intended to be clinically accurate.

This chapter (and one of the characters) is dedicated to the guy from _Chips_ (a store not the TV series) who kindly donated me a bobblehead. Thanks mate!

Another cliff-hanger. Will Arta's evil deeds continue? Will she get to shoot the Sheriff, or even the Deputy? Don't miss the next exciting episode!*


	17. Jericho

Ch 17 Jericho

Arta tried to keep watching the Sheriff's hands, alert for the least sign of movement. But her mind was in a whirl, and she couldn't avoid rapidly shifting her gaze. At one moment to stare into the depths of Simms' calm, intent eyes, the next to focus on the stern line of his jaw. For a split second, she even looked away entirely to where the bobble head of Vault boy kept nodding, nodding, nodding. Simms read the direction of her glance.

"You want to know how I came by that. I got it from a Vaultee like yourself. Seemed like a quiet cuss, then one day he freaked out and started shooting people at random. So I had to take him down. While he was dying, he was holding this little toy is his hand, kind of talking to it like he'd become a child again. I kept it as a reminder to watch out for people who appear harmless, especially from Vaults. So you can understand why I've been watching _your _progress with interest."

Arta assayed a smile and the faintest of shrugs. "I really don't know what you're talking about, Mr Simms. I've passed my time in your town peacefully, and I was only playing hide and seek with your little boy and his friend."

The Sheriff's jaw tightened further. "Don't come the innocent! Customs may differ in Vaults, but I'd be surprised to find adults visiting young children without first asking their parents' permission. And I can't seem to recall that particular childhood game involves poking around in boxes. Even my boy would struggle to fit into one of them. I warned you about thievery and what the penalty for it would be. It's payment time."

"You're making a big mistake, Sheriff." With an effort, Arta threw off the various distractions, and took a deep, calming breath. Almost imperceptibly she began to move her right hand towards her holster.

"I think you'll find the exact opposite is the case." Simms eyes never wavered. "Especially if that hand gets any closer to your gun."

Arta froze the movement, let her fingers hang loosely. She gave another weak smile. "So what happens now? Do we count up to three? Take five paces backwards?"

"That's entirely down to you. Put your hands up and maybe we've got the basis for discussion. Or if you prefer we can square off, and see who's faster."

Arta gritted her teeth. "How do I know if I surrender you won't just shoot me anyway?"

"The answer to that is you don't know, but I _will_ shoot you if you don't."

Arta could see the determination written in Simms' expression. There was certainly no question of him backing down. But her scattered thoughts coalesced on the possible consequences of giving up. Even if she wasn't killed, she would most likely be disarmed, and thrown out into the Wastes to die. Maybe she should take her chances and duel it out. It was face to face, and her gun would be as lethal and effective as the Sheriff's if she could draw and shoot before he had time to aim his weapon, currently held across his body.

A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that these thoughts were desperate, and that she would probably die anyway. Simms easily held the advantage, and was the more experienced fighter. He would surely bring the assault rifle to bear first unless somehow surprised or distracted.

"So what's it to be?"

_I want to live! What should I do?_

It didn't help her state of mind to realise that she had brought this near hopeless confrontation upon herself. She had … it was hard to even _think_ the words … she had murdered a fellow human being without mercy. Following this dreadful act, she had been so overwhelmed with self-loathing that all her sense of morality had been lost. She had acted with the greed and arrogance of a pirate. Now she had to accept the consequences, and if she died it was because she no longer deserved to live. And to survive, she would have to kill again, unless …

"Daddy?" Harden Simms had entered the room. He looked from his father to Arta in a puzzled fashion. "Are you playing the game too?"

In a suddenly hoarse voice, Simms shouted, "Harden, you get out of here!"

Arta had seen his distraction, and was already drawing in one smooth motion. She aimed towards the centre of his body more in hope than expectation.

The Chinese rifle flew from Simms' hands as though snatched away by an invisible being. He stood for a moment appalled, but Arta could see in his concern for his son he was about to do something desperate.

Covering him with the Beretta she said, "Don't make me shoot you."

Simms' face was twisted with anguish, but he remained still.

Harden Simms had also frozen for a moment, now he ran forwards crying, "Don't you hurt my daddy!"

"Harden, no!" The Sheriff's voice held all the horror of one about to lose everything he held dear; a fate far worse than a mere threat to his life. Arta looked from his pain-filled expression to the determined face of the small boy, and a shudder ran through her.

_Where are you, Daddy?_

"No!" she cried. _"No, I can't!"_

She let fall the weapon, and collapsed to her knees, burying her face in her hands to weep bitterly. In the blackness that had come over her soul, she no longer cared about anything. There was only the sharpness of her grief that seemed as if it would never end.

She felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Simms looking down on her. He had recovered his rifle, but his eyes were compassionate, his voice both gentle and stern.

"You know I'm not someone that's usually influenced by a woman's crying. I've known plenty of Raiders and whores who've wept very convincingly when they thought it'd give them an advantage. But I don't think that's happening now. Those tears sound like they come from the heart.

I'm appreciative of the fact that you could've killed me. But you've put your weapon down. And you seemed to have done that so my son wouldn't be hurt. That means a hell of a lot because that kid is everything to me. If someone gives up peacefully then I usually exile them to the Wastes, but I'm not gonna do that this time. Instead I'm gonna give you one, and only one chance.

Listen to me carefully though. If you so much as _breathe _wrong in my town again, then you'd best take your arse out of here damn fast, before I blow it to hell. And you keep well away from my boy. Do you understand?"

"_Yes,"_ she whispered.

"So pick up your gun, get out of my house, and stay out."

* * *

Jericho lay on his bunk bed, listening to the faint sounds of Megaton going about its early evening business. His body felt uncomfortably old and worn out, his thoughts had a painful clarity.

_This is what its like being sober, _he thought. _I knew there was some fucking good reason for avoiding it._

Somehow the day hadn't gone according to his usual plan. Normally he'd go down to _The Brass Lantern, _get some food and finish off any whisky he'd managed to keep from the previous night. Then he'd spend most of the afternoon at _Moriarty's _and put a few more beers on his tab, or pay as much off as Colin wanted before he'd allow him service. Sometimes, if he had the money, he'd call on Nova. And it so happened he had plenty of caps, so that's exactly what he did. They'd lain together, smoked and talked, and that was all. Clearly something was wrong with him.

It had all started when he'd seen Jenny and the Vault girl talking. He'd figured that the conversation had something to do with him, and then Arta had cold-shouldered him. But he could take a fair guess at what they'd been saying. It ought to have made him feel like drinking more; instead he'd wasted time trying to coax information out of Jenny. Of course he hadn't really expected her to put him in the picture. She was playing her ice-maiden act as always.

By the time he'd decided to seek out Arta and demand an explanation, she'd left to go into the Wastes, supposedly to hunt game. That had resulted in him making the usual trip to the saloon, and the no-show with Nova. Feeling embarrassed at the mocking looks she was giving him, he'd sloped off home, and slept most of the afternoon away.

And now he was awake, and feeling uncomfortably sober. Searching he found only empties. _Shit! The next thing will be I start remembering stuff. _And sure enough, here were the memories, just like a bloody trader caravan coming round again …

_"I don't want to keep it. Raiders can't have children dragging around like baggage."_

Jericho looked down at the tiny baby awkwardly cradled in Marlinka's arms. She seemed to peer back at him with half-open, sleepy eyes. _Is she even mine? _he thought. _She doesn't have my big nose, though that might be an advantage. And her eyes are Marlinka's. Maybe she has my ears? _He was struck by the absolute vulnerability of the child. He, or its mother for that matter, could crush it to death in a few moments.

He dragged his gaze away from the tiny creature and the solemn, reproachful stare he imagined she was giving him. Instead he met Marlinka's sullen sidelong glance, the blonde spikes in her hair angled towards him like a challenge.

He said, in the manner of someone determined to have the last word: "You decided to bring her to birth. So you can look after her. "

Marlinka pursed up her mouth angrily. "That wasn't because of any motherly feelings. I would've got rid of her if I wasn't afraid of what you'd do."

"Good." Jericho took a strong drag on his cigarette, exhaled it well away from Marlinka and the baby. "Damn right you should fear me. I lead this clan whereas you're not even a full warrior yet."

"Huh! Turvor lasted two months as War Chief before a Death Claw sliced off his head. I don't even know why they picked you. It's not so long since you took the Test of Manhood."

"I'll tell you why. Because when I take them on raids, most of them come back alive. Unlike with the previous shit-for-brains leader you had. And I plan to be around for a lot longer." He spat some tobacco. "Anyway the notion you need to keep in your pretty little head is that I can do what I like to you. D'you know what _flaying _means?"

"No … I … I never heard of it." Marlinka chewed on her puffy lips nervously.

"You're an ignorant bitch, so I'm not surprised. It means _skinning_." He stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray, gave her a significant look. "If anything, and I mean _anything,_ happens to that baby, so that she dies or gets badly hurt, I'm going to slowly flay you alive. So you'd better take good fucking care of her."

Marlinka quailed. "That's ridiculous!" she protested. "There's so many things that could harm her! You can't be serious!"

"I'm completely damn serious." _At least I want you to believe I am. _"And as for the rest, that's your problem, not mine." He bared his teeth in a smile. "But to help you out, you're let off from going on raids. You can stay here and look after her until she's old enough to protect herself."

"No raiding?" She looked at him mouth agape. "What will I do all the time? I'll be bored out of my skull!" The baby made a small cooing noise, and she rocked it uncertainly. "Anyway I've no idea what you do with them. I'm not a friggin' nurse-maid."

"Well there you're in luck. This happens to be an old school. Some of the info terminals still work. There's a whole bunch of stuff you can find out."

She looked down. "I … I can't read. At least, not very well. I know the alphabet and all but …"

"Jesus Christ!" he exploded. "Then I'll teach you, you dumb broad! Meanwhile I suppose I'll have to find things out myself." He kicked aside some detritus, strode angrily across the ruined school room, seated himself in front of a computer, its lime glow bathing his face. She rose and followed him, holding the baby uncertainly, and rocking her slightly. The cooing had changed to the beginning of a faint cry.

"Why … why's she doing that?"

"Probably hungry. Give her your tit."

She looked askance at him, then irritably exposed a breast, and offered it. The baby immediately seized it between toothless gums, and began to suck.

"There, that's one problem solved. Now let's see …" he tapped on the keyboard. "Pick a letter, any letter."

She peered curiously over his shoulder. "I dunno, A? B?" Seeing him shake his head despairingly, "You said any! Alright … K!"

He depressed another key, and a column of writing appeared. He scrolled down, and stopped. Pointing with his finger, he said, "Try reading that."

"I …" she screwed up her eyes. "I … can't!"

"C'mon, its only one word, for fuck's sake! Starts with K."

"Ka … ka … it's no good!"

"Look that's a T, that's an R, together that a 'TR' sound. Then IN a bit like 'in'."

With a mighty effort of concentration, she tried, "Ka … trin … a."

"Yeah that's nearly right, except the middle bit sounds more like 'tree'. Katrina."

"Ka … tree …na. That's what you want me to call her?"

"As good a name as any." He squinted at the following text. "Means 'pure', or so it says here."

Marlinka gave a sudden laugh. "Pure? Dirty crack whore would be closer to what she'll become!" He glared at her, and she began chanting childishly, "Dirty crack whore! Dirty crack whore!" while rocking the baby in time.

"Shut the fuck up!" Then, moodily: "Ach, you're probably right. Nothing remains pure for long in this craphole. But that's the name she's been given, for better or for worse."

* * *

A pounding on his shack door shook Jericho from his reverie. He could hear Arta's voice, sounding pitiably weak and thin.

"Let me in. Please."

This time he went to answer it immediately. As soon as he opened the door, Arta practically fell through. She clasped him desperately, her manner fey and wild, blue-grey eyes pleading and soulful. He waited for her to speak.

She gripped him tightly, somewhat to his embarrassment. Her words had a hysterical aspect; her speech was fragmentary and broken.

"I killed a man!" In a tone higher in pitch and volume: "I shot him through the heart while he was helpless!" Voice almost cracking. "I'm a cold-blooded murderess, an assassin!"

He said nothing, because it did not yet seem required of him. He let her continue speaking.

"Worse than that, I'm a cutthroat, a footpad. I slaughtered him so that I could plunder his possessions and caps. I'm a sneaking, greedy, _evil _bitch, and my father … my father would despise me if he ever learned about what I've done."

Again he remained silent, listening.

"I shot him down like a dog," she said, her voice lowered despondently. "And buried the loot in the ground like a cowardly, despicable thief." Then suddenly almost shrieking, shaking him violently. "I'm a killer, d'you hear? I don't deserve to live." Weeping now, "Are you listening to me?"

Because she demanded it of him, he said quietly, "I hear you. Try to keep your fucking voice down." She breathed hard, trembling with emotion, like a reproved child. He waited for her to calm a little, then asked, "What do you want of me?"

She turned from him, walked a little way across the dirty, ill-lit room. She looked back.

"I want … I want you to punish me." She spoke now almost matter-of-factly.

"_What?"_ He was shocked into the question.

She continued in the same tone. "I know what you've done in the past, I know the things you've done to people."

He stared at her, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

"And that's what I deserve to have done to me. I want you to punish me, to _hurt_ me, d'you understand?"

He shook his head in confusion.

Instead of elaborating further, Arta began to unzip her jumpsuit, then to tear it off her body as though in a frenzy.

Appalled he said, "What the … stop doing that!"

In response she started to take off her bra, eventually throwing it wildly across the room.

In an almost detached fashion, he noted that her breasts were well shaped and beautiful, but the sight of them made him feel sick. Seeing that she was about to treat her remaining underwear in the same fashion, he stepped forward quickly to pinion her arms.

"I said stop."

She fought back like a wildcat, as she had after the shooting contest. But this time she had the maniacal strength of madness. Even on that occasion he had noted that her muscular development, agility and previously healthier life-style made her a match for the strongest Raider women he had fought with. Nevertheless he had still easily subdued her. Now he could barely hold her off. She kicked and screamed and punched and tore at him as though possessed by some fiend. The frenzy of the assault, combined with his reluctance to hurt her anymore than was absolutely necessary meant he was beginning to suffer gashes to his exposed face and neck.

Seeking someway to end the increasingly uncomfortable confrontation, he recalled the Raider rituals of mating. When a Raider took one of the tribe as his or her chosen partner, it was traditional that the older warrior would subdue the younger in a fight without weapons, after which the couple would go on to have sex. It was a matter of honour that the junior partner should put up a strong resistance, although most of the time there would come a point when he or she would submit. Jericho remembered how hard the battle with Kilshandra had been. She had fought like a tiger, but the sex afterwards had been fantastic.

Now he tried to use a similar means to bring Arta under control. The most difficult thing was to get her to the floor, but using a few wrestling tricks he finally succeeded. Once they were both on the ground, he set about trying to pin her limbs under him.

She still struggled, yet it seemed to him not so aggressively. She was muttering, "Punish me and love me, love me and punish me," over and over like a mantra. He wondered whether she believed that was what he was about to do, hence the weakening resistance. Once he had her body firmly pressed to the floor with his above it, he began to talk quietly.

"Listen to me. I ain't a priest nor your damn father either. I can't hand out forgiveness like confetti, and I sure as hell can't be arsed to punish you. The only poor fucker who could forgive you ain't around any longer, by reason of the fact that you wasted him. And as for punishing, you're making a pretty good job of doing that to yourself."

He could sense that she was relaxing, that she was listening to him.

"So what d'you want me to tell you? Something to make you feel better about what you did? There ain't anything much I can say. You killed someone, and that's a bad thing. All the high falutin' reasons in the world ain't gonna make it any better. You just gotta deal with it. Shit happens. Since the day those bombs started a droppin' we've been tearing at one another like rats in a trap, the survivors fighting over the corpses that remain. And we'll likely keep doing that, until the world changes or there's nothing left at all. Survival, by one means or another. That's the only law of the Wasteland, whatever Simms and his crowd, or those Brotherhood of Steel arseholes would like it to be. When you left the Vault, that's what you signed up for. And now you're just the same as us, no better, and no worse, another Wastelander trying to get by from day to day. Don't ask any of us for forgiveness or punishment. Survive or don't survive. No need to wet your pants over anything else."

Jericho drew a long breath. He didn't know whether this had been the right thing to say or whether it was what Arta had wanted to hear. He just knew that the words had come without prompting, as if they were an expression of the deepest part of his being. She could accept him and his view of the world – or she could tell him to go to hell. Being indifferent to the feelings of others had come to be a habit. But in her case … well, he had to admit he badly wanted her to … understand, at least and then maybe …

She continued to stare at him as though astonished. Then she gave a long sigh. She stretched out to brush the stubble of his cheek with her fingers, sliding them to curve around the back of his head, and pulling him down towards her, she sought out his mouth with her own. Her lips felt as soft as cotton, but at their touch a powerful thrill swept through him, a surge of desire that ran down his spine to reach the base of his manhood. He knew then how much he'd wanted her, had yearned to have her, and that first gossamer touch had set him ablaze with passion in a way that the sight of her naked breasts had not. They kissed again more deeply, as though their lips could devour one another, and he could sense that she lusted for him with a hunger he had not felt from a woman for many years.

He paused to look into her face, with its strange pallor, the large eyes, the full lips, and gently brushed the now disarranged locks of hair into order. They smiled at one another, and he tenderly kissed her above each eye, on the bridge of the nose, on the throat. Then he reached out to graze her right nipple with his thumb, gently scratching it with the nail. He did the same with the other breast, using two fingers instead. She gave a sigh, and he felt her back arch with pleasure, like a cat vigorously stroked. She pulled his head close, and this time he took a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking the tip. His hands slid over her body, the caresses spreading from her breasts to her belly, then lower inside her panties to feel the soft pubic hair and the wetness gathered around her thighs.

His erection was bulging painfully in the confines of his leather trousers, and he wondered if Arta was aware of it. Even as he thought this, he could feel her fingers rubbing teasingly at the area of his crotch. Driven by the need to free himself, he quickly removed his lower garments. Arta was meanwhile squirming with the urgency of her own desire, her hand cupping her vulva, a gesture that at first seemed coy, becoming provocative as she began to move her fingers. He yearned to enter her there and then, but resisted the urge. He wanted to make sure she was ready for him.

The sensation of Jericho burying his head between her thighs was a new one, the bristliness of his beard abrading her skin; yet the pleasure Arta felt when his tongue touched her sensitive zone was as intense as with a woman. The more so because he held back from thrusting it into her entrance, teasing the wet folds of flesh as though preparing them to be parted. She was increasingly desperate for him to enter her, and moaned in encouragement, as she could no longer stimulate him directly. He had complete control over her, his tongue flicking lightly over her aroused labia. Just as she thought the pleasurable torment was becoming unbearable, he withdrew his head, then shifted forward so that he was poised above her. She spread her legs wider as he lowered himself. Years of hard drinking hadn't affected his muscle tone, and she could feel the tightness of his buttocks as she hugged him to herself.

His entrance into her was swift and sure, and the brief pain was overwhelmed by relief at the delicious feeling of him inside her, of satisfying fullness. He began to surge powerfully into her, and she felt as though waves of rapture were soothing away the hurts she had suffered, healing the torment in her mind. The pleasurable friction of each thrust made her shudder exquisitely. He was increasing the pace, almost pounding into her as his climax and her own approached. She was reaching the point of no return, nearly losing consciousness as her mind and body seemed to flow together in a final rush of ecstasy. As the heavenly spasms convulsed her, she sensed the pulsing of his semen into her, in a flood that could not bring about a child, but marked the moment of sharing, the coming together in intimacy that, amidst all the devastations of war and the turning of man against man, still remained as the ultimate symbol of love and trust.

* * *

Arta woke, and stretched herself luxuriously. She felt wonderfully relaxed and blissfully happy. The resulting physical and emotional glow more than compensated for the slight disappointment that she was alone in bed. Springing energetically from the mattress, she quickly dressed, opened the shack door and stepped out into the morning sunshine. It was another fine day, and Jericho was sitting outside, his boots as usual on the table but for once without a bottle of whisky to hand. He saw her and smiled and she felt her own grin nearly splitting her face. He got up to go and stand by the rail, and she sauntered over to slide an arm around his shoulders, leaning her face close against his. They remained like that, holding each other and watching the comings and goings of the early day human traffic.

Arta hadn't experienced such a sensation of well being since the first time she had made love to Amata. The sheer emotional high was utterly intoxicating. She imagined that if she leapt off the terrace, her happiness would buoy her up and she would simply float to the ground. In her head was a song she remembered from _Galaxy News Radio:_

_Wish on the moon,_

_And look for the gold in a rainbow,_

_And you'll find a happy time._

_You'll hear a tune,_

_That lives in the heart of a bluebird,_

_And you'll find a happy time._

_Though things may look very dark,_

_Your dream is not in vain,_

_For when do you find the rainbow?_

_Only after rain._

_So wish on the moon,_

_And some day, it may be tomorrow,_

_You will suddenly hear chimes,_

_And you'll have your happy, happy time._

The feeling of being loved and protected was like a warm cloak around her, and she was completely indifferent to the curious and even hostile glances of some passers by, including Lucy West, who went below to talk with Jenny Stahl. _Let them gossip, everything's fine now._

After a while, Arta whispered softly, "Can we go back inside?"

The morning passed in a slow haze of languorous touching, of the closeness of flesh, of the taste and scent of each other. It did not seem to matter if he entered her slowly and sensuously, after stimulating every part of her, moving to a sliding, teasing rhythm that made her ready and desperate to come. Or whether he took her suddenly, lifting her athletically and pounding into her so that she was deliciously excited by the urgency of his rough fucking. Or if they simply lay together, limbs wrapped around one another, faces close, in a private heaven of post-coital bliss. It was all about becoming intimate with one another, of learning about each other's bodies, of each other's needs and desires. Of two becoming closer to one. She would examine the hard muscularity of his body, watch his brown eyes, intent with passion or creased with sardonic amusement or reflective with what seemed a strange wisdom, and think, _I love him, I want him. _She could not yet make a distinction between the two. They seemed fused together in the heat of passion, in the glow of intimacy.

Her need to do everything she could to show him her overflowing affection made the act which she had perceived so disgusting when Amata had performed it on Jonas seem another way that she could satisfy and give him pleasure. When she knelt and took him in her mouth, squeezing her lips around the soft curve of his glans, and sliding them over the solidity of his shaft, she thrilled to see his face taut with ecstasy and his impassioned groans as he came, jetting the hot stickiness of his semen over her face and breasts.

It was after such an episode that she realised she'd become extremely hungry. She told him so.

He leered at her. "I thought you'd had enough for breakfast!"

She slapped him affectionately. "Don't be so crude! We've got to eat eventually. Don't you want anything?"

"Yeah, I guess it's about that time. I'm dry as dust too. How about you get us some Squirrels on Sticks from _The Brass Lantern _and a bottle of whisky from _Moriarty's_?"

Arta grimaced. "Why does it have to be me? I'm sure that Jenny Stahl's beginning to dislike me, and will be ready to make some sneering remark. Especially after Lucy West's primed her with gossip. And … " she looked down at herself with dismay "I'm all messy too."

"Ach, don't worry so much about them! They can bark but they sure can't bite, unlike some of the sick fucks I've been acquainted with." He gave another knowing grin. "Hey, d'you want for me to lick you clean?"

"Mmmm, please!" Arta giggled and allowed him to begin. After the rather prolonged interruption, she returned to her concerns. "Look, it's easier for you than me to ignore them. You don't give a flying toss about your reputation. But I do. I don't want them getting one over me, and then laughing like fun behind my back."

"Huh, women! They're always pissing themselves over what _other _women think of them. But listen, babe, you've gotta deal with them some time or other. Else they'll think you're scared. Jenny's always been an uptight bitch. Go rattle her cage and she'll scuttle away like a scorp into its hole."

Arta sighed. "I guess you're right. Does it have to be _now _though?"

"No time like the present! Say, why don't you make that two _big _bottles of whisky? I'm getting me a more powerful thirst every minute that goes by."

"After Church's charges, I haven't enough loose change left over."

Jericho tossed her a bag which chinked with the sound of caps. "How about those for size? But try not to get yourself mugged or too sloshed to get back."

"Look at the big spender!" she teased. "Your grandma just died or something?"

Jericho stretched his lips over his teeth and gave her a sidelong look. "Something like that. Figures that your caravan's gotta come in some day or other."

His grin faded, as Arta turned to leave. Now she wasn't here any longer he had nothing to distract him, and still no booze. That could only lead to …

* * *

"This knife is a tooth for the tribe. Be proud and spill the blood of our enemies." _Shandra's so much better at this ceremonial bullshit than me! And strictly this is the rite for someone coming of age as a warrior. _But Kilshandra had urged they should mark the end of Marlinka's responsibility in some way, and he'd seen no harm in it. Returning to his normal voice tones, he said, "Basically, kid, it means you're old enough to protect yourself. You looking forward to your old dad teaching you how to use it properly?"

The girl nodded, the twin ponytails on the sides of her blonde head drooping forward. She grabbed the knife, and examined its curved edge and blue-painted handle, on which the letters K A T had been carved. Tracing them with her fingers, she said truculently, "You know none of my friends call me Kat? Even momma doesn't."

Jericho switched his gaze to Marlinka, standing tall behind her daughter, wearing a long quilted armour jacket, a sledgehammer held sloped over one shoulder. She returned him an insolent smile.

"Well, a lot of things are about to change for you. You're momma's gonna be joining the raiding parties, and you'll be staying with Shandra and me from now on."

The girl made a face, turned to look at her mother. "Why can't I go with her? I wanna kick some butt!"

Jericho tutted. "You're still too little for that. You've got a lot of learning to do first."

The girl pursed her lips stubbornly. "I'm big enough too! I'm gonna cut the balls off a townee and hang 'em on my belt!"

Marlinka smirked. Jericho rolled his eyes. Beside him, Kilshandra flashed him a look, then crouched down to the girl's height, smiling.

"My name's Shandra, Kat. Me and your father are good friends, and now you're going to be mine. See, I've got a knife like yours 'cept it's a bit bigger. In time you'll get a bigger one too. Then we can all fight together. You'll be on your father's right side, and I'll be on his left."

The girl stared back at Kilshandra, her eyes big and glassy. She said, "You're _not_ my friend. I don't even _like _you_._ And don't call me Kat." She hung the knife around her neck, and walked towards the remains of the campfire, the wind-blown sand of the Wastes swirling around the small tracks she left.

Kilshandra was left squatting awkwardly. She looked up at Jericho, and shook her head. "That could've gone better."

He shrugged. "Ah, she just needs time to get used to you. Remember she's had this useless twat of a mother up to now. You can hardly do any worse."

Marlinka gave a ferocious grin. "Take her and welcome, bitch. In time she'll come to be more of a curse to you than to her momma. I guarantee it." To Jericho she said roughly, "When do we move out?"

"At sunset. We'll reach the Bethesda tunnels before moonrise. You'll get your belly full of fighting then, I guarantee _that_."

She saluted him mockingly, and turned on her heel.

Looking after her, Jericho muttered, "Let's hope the cunt gets herself killed." Kilshandra grunted and got to her feet. He curled an arm around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You'll look after Kat meanwhile, okay? Make sure she stays safe."

She nodded. "I just hope _I_ stay safe from _her_."

* * *

"Two squirrel kebabs, coming up." Jenny Stahl took two skewers full of meat from the cooler and arranged them on the grill. She then leaned back into her usual position, her face set and unsmiling, her blue eyes hard and faintly contemptuous.

Deciding that she needed to provoke a response from the bartender, Arta tried starting with small talk.

"So how's business?"

"Brisk as always." Jenny sounded bored.

"And how's the Food Purifier shaping up?"

"A work in progress." Minimal dialogue appeared to be Jenny's order of the day, her previously simulated friendliness notably absent.

"I'll be interested to see how it develops," Arta ploughed on. "Because I expect to be staying in Megaton for a while yet."

"Oh really?" For the first time Jenny showed a flicker of interest. "The hunting trip was that successful then?"

Arta nodded. "In a manner of speaking."

"And I do believe you've decided to take the _other _advice I gave you." Jenny continued with the hint of a smile. "At least, in effect."

Arta shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well, it's the oldest trick in the book." Jenny ran her tongue along her upper lip as though considering. "Seduce one of Megaton's residents and shack up with them. I'm sure you'll agree it differs from whoring only in the number of people you're required to sleep with. Certainly in Jericho's case there's virtually no difference in the quality."

Looking into Jenny's eyes lit with cruel amusement, Arta resisted the urge to deck her there and then. That would only get her thrown out of Megaton. She had to battle Jenny on something like her own terms. She was determined that this would have a different outcome to the Vault confrontation with Suzy long ago.

Keeping her voice deliberately calm, she said, "I think you've completely got the wrong idea."

"Is that so?" Jenny raised her eyebrows mockingly.

"Absolutely it's so. You see my relationship with Jericho is a personal matter that has nothing to do with my status in Megaton. I told you before I thought he was misunderstood, and I'd appreciate it if you'd talk about my … chosen partner … with considerably more respect."

"Oh my god." Jenny spoke as though to the air. "The woman has the front to pretend she's in _love_. Does she really think we're all so easy to deceive?"

Arta gave the sweetest of smiles. "I realise that in this town most people have gained their positions by underhand and cynical means, so it's hard for them to appreciate when two people have genuine feelings for one another. I can assure you I'm fully capable of looking after myself if necessary."

"I had my doubts …" Jenny sounded like she was up for the fight "… when I heard you'd visited Doc Church's plugged full with more buckshot holes than you'd find in a sieve." She added silkily, "I figured the idea of hunting was to do that to the critters instead. Have the mole rats started using twelve-gauges?"

Arta gave a short laugh. "Such a joker!" Leaning forward over the counter, she continued, "It's true I suffered a few superficial injuries but …" she lowered her voice confidentially "… you should've seen the other guy."

Jenny looked shocked, then attempted to rally, her voice an octave higher. "Well, it's not surprising such things happen with the numbers of Raiders and criminals that get attracted to the Megaton area. Only yesterday Doc Church was complaining that someone had plundered his medical supplies." With emphasis she added, "Its often hard to tell if the person you're talking to one minute might be robbing or mugging you the next."

_Fencing, fencing! _"You know you're absolutely right!" Arta fixed Jenny with a significant look. "And people can have such short tempers too. I mean one word out of place could get you shot out of hand."

Jenny gulped, and nervously turned the squirrel skewers on the grill. "Of course a person in my position has very little to fear," she blathered. "I run the only diner in town, and anyone thinking of harming me should think again before messing with such a valued member of the community."

"I'm sure that's true as well." Arta gave Jenny a grin which she hoped looked suitably demented. "Still sometimes people with very little to lose decide to damn the consequences and blow the head off the person who's been annoying them. I know that tempting feeling so well myself."

"I … I …" Jenny's upper lip trembled, and she looked considerably paler.

With a sudden change of manner, Arta added smoothly, "Can you wrap those kebabs for me when they're done?"

"Sh … sure."

Jenny's hands were shaking as she removed the skewers from the grill. Arta thought she might as well make the most of her obvious state of discomposure.

"You know …" she said conversationally, "… I've always fancied the idea of running my own diner. Perhaps one day soon Jericho and I will open one. We could combine the best of rare Vault food with exotic Raider cuisine." She made a grand gesture. "How does _Artemesia's Vault Bar and Grill _sound? Or maybe _The Raider and the Vault Girl_?"

"It sounds … really great." Jenny spluttered. "Here's your food to go. Ten caps please."

Arta poured approximately fifteen caps onto the counter. "Keep the change. And enjoy your monopoly … while it lasts."

Arta's mood of ebullience was such that when she strolled casually into _Moriarty's _her unruffled air and confident wave completely non-plussed Lucy West, wiping the knowing smile from her face. Even Nova looked impressed. Arta sauntered over to the bar.

"What'll it be, friend?"

"Two large whiskies to take out, please, Gob." Arta idly wondered whether ghouls were at all interested in sex. Did they even have the … _necessary equipment_, for that matter? It was the sort of thing that might rot away …

She got the answer to one of those questions almost immediately. A bony elbow dug into her side. Looking up she saw Gob was screwing up his face, and realised he was trying his best to wink at her.

_Jees, even he knows! That probably means practically the whole town has heard!_

Gob placed the whisky bottles on the bar, before speaking from the side of his mouth in a tone even lower than the normal ghoul register, "Miss Arta, someone's left you a message."

Without appearing to do so, Arta examined the hand written note he'd passed across. It was penned in a florid style, the letters bold and curving as though the writer was a practitioner of calligraphy.

It said simply: _Come and see me, when you can find the time._

And at the bottom it was signed: _Burke._

Arta automatically turned to look at the corner table Burke had customarily occupied. The stub of a cigar had been left in the ashtray, but his chair was empty. She frowned and crumpled the paper. Even on the best of days, a cloud could sometimes appear on the horizon.

* * *

_Christ, she's taking ages! I should've gone to Moriarty's myself! I'm going to make a resolution to give up sobriety for good!_

Jericho hugged himself; the shakes were coming on, and with them the flashbacks. Making love to Arta had made him feel good for a while, but had also evoked memories. Of being with Kilshandra. In all the years they had been together, sex with her only seemed to get better and better. The intimacy and the passion deepened, while the freshness remained; they had not stood still but had continued on a journey to discover one another. There was a kind of rejoicing each time, a celebration that they were still unexpectedly alive and together.

The memory of her warmth and softness was so clear and sweet that it hurt. Especially he remembered that time when …

_Kilshandra's face was tense with ecstasy as he thrust into her; he watched it change and soften with the release of pleasure, listened to her throaty moans becoming sighs as the pulsing of her orgasm faded._

Afterwards he lit cigarettes for them both, of better quality than usual, taken in a recent raid. They lay together for a while, smoking wordlessly.

Eventually she said, "When the sun rises, she will take the Test."

"Oh, yeah?" With a poor attempt at humour he added, "Is it that time already? They grow up so fast!"

"Don't joke, Jericho." She inhaled and exhaled fast, stubbed the cigarette on the wall, and turned to face him. "Look at me! You know I'm serious about this."

He regarded her warily. "Yeah, I know. So what?"

"So she'll be a full warrior of the tribe, able to call out anyone she chooses. You know the penalty for refusing such a challenge."

He coughed. "Death or exile. Big deal. If you want to tangle with anyone, you can arrange to do it anytime. Warrior of the tribe or not. And she isn't stupid enough to take me on anyway."

"No she isn't." Kilshandra paused, spoke in a lowered tone. "It will be me. That will be her way of striking at you, an open challenge. And … she hates me. She has always hated me, so much."

"Okay, she hates you, I agree. But …" He interlaced his hands, twisted them, threw them apart helplessly. "What the fuck do you expect me to do about it?"

In sudden anger, Kilshandra seized hold of his wrist. "Expect? You are my chosen and the leader of my tribe! Don't allow this insult to your authority! Kill her!"

He snatched his arm away. "No, I won't do it."

"Then have her killed."

He looked away from her. "No."

"Why not?"

"She's too popular. There's a risk the tribe'll split."

"Then do it _secretly_." Kilshandra reached across the bed, half drew her combat knife from its sheath. "Give me the order. Before moon set I'll spill her blood in dark waves on the ground."

"No!" He gave her a horrified look. "You ain't doing any such shit!"

"If not you or I, then who?"

Instead of answering her, he started to light up another cigarette.

Kilshandra slid back the dagger and waited a while. Then she said quietly, "I know I'm your beloved. But you don't love me enough."

He continued to smoke without replying.

After another interval, she spoke again. "I love you with all my heart. I will die for you if I must. Yet I would not have that death go for nothing."

Sombrely he said, "I don't want you to die, for me or anyone."

"Unless you act now, you'll have no choice. It'll be me or her."

"Then I already got no fucking choice." Meeting her eyes, he said, "She's my daughter, see?"

An even longer silence followed. The twin fans of Kilshandra's hair were bowed.

Finally she said, "Let's not quarrel, love." Snaking an arm around his neck: "Make love to me again, as though it were the last time …"

"_Jericho?_ Hey, are you asleep?"

Jericho stirred awake, muttering. He felt like shit. And he knew exactly what he wanted.

Arta stood above him, a bottle of whisky under each arm. "Dozing away the afternoon like an old man? I should've gotten a lover with more stamina!" She gave him a cheeky grin.

For the moment he was concerned only with the whisky. Reaching out he said, "Gimme one of those!"

She whisked them back out of reach, shimmying with them teasingly. "How about you kiss me for them?" Wiggling her butt: "On my sweet arse!"

He lurched violently to his feet, wrenched one of the bottles from her grasp. "I said gimme!" He unstoppered it and tipped the fiery liquid down his throat. It felt so damn good.

Arta's face crumpled with hurt. He'd spoilt the mood. In a sulky tone, she said, "I brought food as well, courtesy of that Stahl bitch. And I showed her too. Not that you care; you're too busy guzzling that shit."

"Mmmm?" _Pure bottled gold, _he thought.

Angrily Arta waved the second bottle and shouted, "Jesus Christ! Do I have to pour this into my gash to get your attention?"

The sweet relief of the alcohol flowing through his veins mellowed him to her outcry. Mildly he replied, "You've become a very dirty-minded little girl. Must be my influence. But I like the way your mind's working right now."

"Fuck you! You might've noticed I'm not a little girl, I'm a woman!"

He realised he'd ticked her off, though not that seriously. To placate her he said, "Sure you're a woman; you're my woman."

She turned her face away. "Don't try to sweet talk me, you old piss-head!"

"Aw, Arta, c'mon! You don't realise what its like for an old piss-head like me to be without a drink this long!"

She was trying to keep turned away from him, but it soon became a game. He caught and kissed her. She put up only minimal resistance.

Eventually she said, "If that was our first quarrel, then the make-up sex ought to come soon after."

He groaned mentally. _If I can still get it up! _Hastily he said, "Yeah, but why don't we eat the food while its hot?"

"Oh … oh well, I suppose."

As she unwrapped the kebabs, he said, "So you went and rattled Jen's cage?"

"Yeah, until the bars came off!"

"Heh, I wish I could've seen it!"

He watched her as she ate. She was putting on a bit of a show, deliberately consuming the meat as slowly and sexily as she could. It was funny. And also – thankfully – arousing.

"This is nice. I mean, the two of us eating together."

"Yeah … its nice," he agreed.

But he was troubled as he looked at her. She was … so young. Even younger than his own daughter would be if she were still alive. Was he closer to being her lover or - for all that he had denied it – more like her father? And if the latter, what did that imply about …

He tried to kill that thought. _No more terrible choices._

_

* * *

_

So that was rather more explicit than previously, but I hope not gratuitously so. Believe me, it would've been so much easier to 'fade to black', it just didn't seem right to do so. This has been one of the harder chapters to write (hence an unusually long time taken), requiring a number of different moods, as well as a completely separate story interwoven. Suffering from a cold and toothaches hasn't helped, but let's not turn this into a writer's blog. I can only say I'm more than usually relieved its finished.

Concerning shooting guns from people's hands, I can testify seeing a U tube video in which a police sniper did exactly that to a man holding a pistol to his own head. Whether someone could achieve the same trick with a handgun against an assault rifle held in both hands I really don't know. At close range it would be a reasonably sized target, and the game let's you do it, so I've no more to say.

Some of you may be wondering why Arta didn't suffer more pain and bleeding from having penetrative sex for the first time. In fact, contrary to common belief, this may not happen at all, and thus I decided it wouldn't. The poor girl has suffered enough recently; give her a break! Considering her previous activities, it's quite likely her hymen would've already broken, hence no blood. By the way, if _your_ first time was exceedingly painful and bloody, please don't feel you have to write to inform me. I really don't need to know.


	18. Oppenheimer's Ghost

Ch 18 Oppenheimer's Ghost

"You were born _under_ the United States, so that makes you a red-blooded American. And that's why you should support the Enclave. They're gonna restore truth, justice and the American way of life!"

"Is that so?" Arta asked, a trifle impatiently. She could see now why Grandma Sparkle had been exasperated by Manya's husband, Nathan. The old coot had completely and uncritically accepted the Enclave's propaganda. How could he know any of the things they'd promised would come about in reality? He reminded her of the majority of the Vault 101 residents, unquestioningly swallowing the view of the world spoon-fed to them by the Overseer and Vault-tec. A spirit of mischief inspired her to set him some awkward questions. "Isn't America supposed to be the Land of the Free?"

"Absolutely!" The white-haired old man averred earnestly. Clearing his throat, he began, "_Oh, say does that star-spangled banner-er ye-et wa-ave, Oe'r the …_"

Interrupting ruthlessly, Arta continued, "And in order to be free, the people need to know who's governing them, don't they?"

"That certainly makes a kind of sense," Nathan answered, a little more doubtfully.

"If that's the case …" Arta concluded triumphantly "… how can this John Henry Eden be our president? We don't know who he is, where he is or what he looks like!"

"Well a … now just a minute, young lady." Nathan's wrinkled nut-brown countenance became even more furrowed as he tried to think of a reply.

"And doesn't that apply to the rest of the Enclave?" Arta added spiritedly. "We don't know where they are either!"

"See look, now there's a simple answer to these questions of yours." Nathan's voice retained the conviction of a true believer. "In the words of President Eden himself: _the Enclave is you and me. _So it's everywhere around us. And as for the President, god bless him, you can hear his voice. He's on the radio!"

Arta could see that Nathan was at least as kindly and public-spirited as Manya herself. His naïve faith in the Enclave was even a little touching. She decided to stop teasing him, at least not so he'd notice.

"Ah, _the radio!"_ she exclaimed. "Of course, how foolish of me to forget that!"

"See I knew a respectable young woman like yourself would share my point of view," Nathan declared complacently. "When the Enclave takes over, we'll be right there standing shoulder to shoulder with them like loyal Americans."

_Respectable! Hmmm, here's at least one who hasn't heard about my latest 'activities'. Probably because he hasn't stopped talking about the Enclave for long enough. _Arta was finally letting Jericho have a rest, after he'd pleaded with her to 'give my dick a break for an hour or two.' She'd left him in the shack and gone out to take in the sunshine and perhaps chat with some residents. Nathan was the first she'd come across prepared to talk. The problem had been the mostly one-dimensional nature of the conversation.

"Hey, Nathan, what's up?" A lively male voice spoke from behind Arta. She turned to see a vigorous looking man of about thirty. He wore a maroon sweater beneath a light sleeveless leather armoured jacket of the kind that seemed so popular amongst Megaton residents, and his bandana and eye-patch made him look like a legendary pirate, albeit a somewhat jovial one. "Talking to an attractive young woman in secret? Wait till I tell Manya about this!"

"There ain't nothing secret about it, Billy," Nathan replied good humouredly. "I was just informing this lady of her duty as a patriotic American."

"Golly gee, Nathan, I'd never have guessed!" The man winked broadly at Arta with his good eye. He held out his hand. "I'm Billy Creel. May I ask who I'm addressing?"

Responding to Creel's air of direct friendliness, and admiring how he'd immediately worked in a compliment to her, Arta had taken his hand before she'd realised that his name was familiar. Shaking it a little limply, she said carefully, "My name is Arta."

"This young woman's from a Vault, Billy," Nathan put in. "But I told her that don't make no difference. She's still a citizen of the good old USA."

"Arta, huh?" The gallantry had abruptly vanished from Creel's manner and tone to be replaced by suspicion. "Now what would that be short for?"

Arta hesitated and Nathan supplied the answer. "Why it's short for Artemesia. A kind of _flower_, so she says. 'Course in the Vaults they know more about that pre-war stuff. Ain't no such things now, but I'm betting that when the Enclave take over …"

"Artemesia?" Creel interrupted. "Oh so you're the woman that Maggie met recently?" Arta could sense the increase in tension from the slight change in his tone and the set of his shoulders.

"That was me," she replied in a voice to match.

"Well she was telling me all about you." The heartiness in Creel's voice was now obviously fake. "Hey, Nathan, mind if I have a few words alone with this charming lady?" He winked this time in the old man's direction."

"Oh … oh I get it! You young people! I'll be running along then. God bless the Enclave!" Nathan shuffled off in the direction of the converted blue airport bus which was Manya's home.

"God bless you too, old feller!" As soon as Nathan was out of earshot, Creel said in an abruptly altered, rough tone, "Artemesia Wendell! I've certainly heard about you. You're the thieving slut from the Vault that's had the low down dirty notion of using little children to help carry out your heinous crimes. Well I don't care if Simms has gone soft and thinks you're sorry. As his deputy, I'm saying that you _will _be very sorry if you don't get out of town right now. Maggie is under my protection, and I don't want any bad influences on her, especially those of a lying, despicable thief. If you've got anything to take issue with what I've just said, then …" he tapped the long handle of the hand gun he wore at his belt, "…you can go on and make my day."

Arta was temporarily struck dumb. His description of her sounded so much worse when coming from a stranger. Not that she could really object to it.

Stammering she said, "I – I don't want any trouble."

Creel chewed and spat in the direction of the main gate. "Head out yonder, and there won't be any."

Arta was wondering what she could possibly do, when a familiar voice growled, "There ain't gonna be no trouble, period."

Arta sighed with relief. Creel didn't turn round. "Well, Mr. Jericho! I should've known you'd be involved in this dirty business. They say a dog always returns to its own puke."

"You be careful now, Billy." Jericho's voice was level but menacing. Arta could see his assault rifle was unslung and trained on Creel's back. "My job here's the same as yours, and I ain't taking any of your shit. You know that's all in the past, and you heard what Lucas said. So back off."

Creel finally deigned to face Jericho. Observing the weapon, he said scornfully, "_All in the past_, he says. It was in the past that Raiders killed Maggie's parents. That's why I have to look after her. The past is important. I look at you now with that rifle pointing at me, and I think, what's really changed?"

"One thing ain't different. If anyone tries messing with me or my _compadres_ I'm gonna shoot them first. But people can change; you know they can. Tell him, Arta."

Arta said, through a dry throat. "I admit I made a mistake, a big one. And I promise you I won't do anything to hurt Maggie. I never meant to."

Creel glanced at her distrustfully while keeping his main attention on Jericho. "You're absolutely right you won't hurt her." He put a finger up to his left cheek. "I'm gonna keep my eye on you to make sure you don't." He looked at Jericho. "I'll be keeping my eye on both of you. So will Lucas, I dare say."

"Whatever, Billy. Keep your eye wherever you like, so long as you keep that magnum holstered."

Creel shook his head. "You're such a damn hypocrite! How'd it end up we've got an ex-Raider as town security? Some kind of fucked up thinking."

"You know you're probably right, about the fucked up thinking anyway. But whining about it ain't gonna help you, so why don't you take yourself out of here."

"I'm going, man, I'm gone."

Looking after his departing back, Arta said, "He was right to be angry."

"So what if he was? He's got no right to bypass Simms and he knows it. Anyway, don't worry babe, the only thing that counts is this." He gave his well cared for assault rifle an almost affectionate tap.

Arta shrugged, "Maybe. So how come you're outside? Has your dick recovered yet?"

"Ahem, maybe a bit longer! I just finished working on something, a kinda present for you. Wanna come and see?"

* * *

"For something that's supposed to stop bullets, it's pretty revealing, don't you think?"

Arta examined her reflection critically in a highly polished piece of metal. The leather cuirass was tight around her breasts, emphasizing her cleavage. Clearly Raider women preferred sexual display to full body protection. The design of the armour, which left the shoulders and upper arms bare, reinforced this impression.

Grinning Jericho said, "That's the Raider way. You gotta look like you're dressed to kill." He adjusted an arm guard. "Now you put on these long gloves too."

Slipping on the leather gauntlets that covered her entire lower arms, Arta asked, "Isn't dressing like this around Megaton going to attract the wrong kind of attention? Some people already believe I'm an up and coming master criminal."

"Heh, well you're already getting yourself known around town for something." He laughed as she rolled her eyes. "I'd say most people ought to figure that Raiders won't just turn up inside town ... or if they do, they'll look like ordinary Wastelanders. Anyhow, you don't have the tribal markings. If you wear your Vault helmet and act normal, I doubt you'll have any trouble. I've removed the spikes and the scalps so you look less scarifying."

She chewed her lower lip dubiously. "Leaving out the fear factor, is this stuff actually good protection?"

"Decent enough, outside of the best leather and combat armours. Least ways if its been made by someone who knows what they're about. You could say I've had a bit of practice over the years. It takes a few suits put together to achieve it, but this is damn close to top condition for this kind of gear." He stood back to admire the effect and made a mock bow, "All hail the Queen of the Wastes!"

Striking a coy pose, Arta said, "I guess it does something for me."

"For me as well," he admitted.

She leant forward coquettishly, one hand on hip. "Am I putting you in mind of all those Raider women that you've had?"

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Most of them were a lot dirtier … except in the head." She made a grab for him, and they fell, struggling and laughing onto the bed.

Afterwards he offered her a cigarette. Puffing on it and choking, she gasped, "You actually get enjoyment out of this?"

"More than you at the moment. You need to inhale more slowly, not wolf it down." Taking the cigarette back, he demonstrated, then blew a smoke ring.

Lying back and regarding the ceiling, Arta asked, "How does a Raider become town deputy?"

"Ah, that old question!"

He said nothing more for a while, until Arta slid an arm outwards to stroke his chest, and probed, "Do you ever think about going back out there?"

"To the Wastes?" For a moment he was passionate. "Why would I want to? There's nothing but bullshit out there. Stealing, killing, raping …"

"Sounds like fun!" He looked at her and she hastily affirmed, "I was joking! Still, don't you ever get bored here?"

Reflectively he said, "You know, sometimes I do miss it. It was a life of freedom, you know. But there'd be no point. I'm washed up, not half the man I was. I used to _lead._ I had over half a score of rifles under my own command, with maybe two to three times that number in the whole clan. From Arefu to Faragut Station we _owned _the Wastes. The caravans paid us tribute or they'd never've got through. And that was all down to me. Before I got made War Chief, we were the kind of pathetic deadbeats that even a half-strength band of Outcasts could put to flight."

"_Outcasts_?"

"Renegades from the Brotherhood of Steel. I don't know which are the bigger bunch of losers: the original dumb arses with their 'good fight' or the Outcasts poking around the ruins for tech stuff that only works half the time. Anyway the time came when we made them fear us, the whole stuck up lot of them. A patrol that went further than a mile north of the Citadel would be ambushed and wiped out within the hour. We had the best of equipment and tactics to match. We could've laid this burg in ruins if we'd wanted."

"So why didn't you?"

Jericho gave a grunt. "Because you don't kill the goose that lays the golden eggs."

Arta thought how little she knew about the man she had chosen to share a bed with. After a while she said quietly, "You're smart, Jericho, real smart. How'd you get to be so smart?"

For answer Jericho merely cleared his throat, apparently slightly embarrassed by the question.

Arta got to her feet, and prowled about the room, as though in search of some clue to Jericho's past. She'd noticed that quite a lot of the equipment in the room was recently acquired. On the wall hung a gleaming rifle which looked though it had been customised from a number of different parts. On a table were some grenades and mines. Several cut up pieces of Raider armour had been thrown into a corner. None of these had been present when she'd first spent the night in the shack.

One item she remembered was still there however. There was something so iconic and traditional looking about it, that she felt sure it must somehow hold the key to Jericho's soul.

She knelt to examine the sword, which was protruding from the sad-looking furry belly of a teddy bear. The edge felt razor sharp, and the blade and guard were graven with characters in a script Arta had never seen before.

She asked, "What are these marks?"

Jericho said gruffly. "Chinese. Its how they write." He knelt down and pointed. "See, on the blade it has the name of its maker. Here on the hilt is the name of the sword, _White Mist_."

Surprised Arta exclaimed, "You can read them?"

"Not many. There are hundreds of symbols. The guy that used to own this read them for me. Lei Peng was his name."

"And he gave you the sword?"

"No. You could say I inherited it. When I was a little kid, he found me wandering in a settlement that had been destroyed by supermutants. He took me in and brought me up as though I were his son. Then one day a large force of Raiders attacked us, and he was killed. I tried to protect his corpse with the sword. The Raiders must've thought a kid using a weapon like that was funny or spunky because instead of finishing me off or leaving me to die, they took me with them and made me one of the tribe. After I took the Test of Manhood years later, they returned the sword to me."

Arta said fascinated, "That's quite a story. What was this Lei person like?"

"Well, he was a disciplinarian, but he had his soft side." Jericho stroked the blade abstractedly, as though it would help him to think back. "See he used to be Special Forces, one of the Chinese commandos that infiltrated the US in the war. But he'd kinda gone native. Taught me about the military way of life, as well as a whole lot of other shit about history and so on. And more than anything else, how to survive in the Wastes."

Arta shook her head, puzzled. "But the war was over nearly two hundred years ago, wasn't it?"

"Sure it was."

"So this guy was a _descendant _of the Chinese soldiers that fought in it."

"No. He _was _one of those soldiers."

"That's impossible! He'd have to be some kind of ghost!"

Jericho laughed at her confusion. "Heh, heh, you could say he was something like that. A Revenant. Or what you know as a Ghoul."

"A ghoul?"

"Yeah, see once ghoulification sets in, the poor bugger carries on living, if you can call it that, even though his or her body is rotting away. So ghouls don't grow old and die the way humans do. There are still some alive that were born before the war or fought in it. Lei Peng was one of them. In all that time, he acquired a fair amount of knowledge, or wisdom you might say."

Arta said, "A ghoul adopted you? Weren't you afraid?"

"Nar, at that age you accept pretty much anyone. Sure I figured he looked like a monster, but a friendly one. 'Course that wasn't necessarily always gonna be the case. Towards the end his mind was beginning to go; he was close to turning feral. Otherwise the Raiders couldn't have got the better of him. Lucky for me they did, I reckon."

Arta shuddered. "Could Gob ever turn like that? What would happen?"

"Well for a start _Moriarty's_ would need a new barman. As well as someone to clean up the mess."

Arta made a face and decided to change the subject. Waving around the room she asked, "Where'd you get all these weapons and armour? They weren't here when I left for the Mart. And I seem to remember you hardly had two caps to rub together after you'd finished boozing. Now suddenly you're loaded."

Evasively Jericho said, "Just a little windfall I came across."

By now Arta was able to read Jericho well enough to suspect he was trying to conceal something. Frowning she said, "You said you didn't go into the Wastes. And if Raiders had come while I was away, people'd still be talking about it."

Jericho protested, "I never said I didn't go _sometimes. _And if some kinda break comes my way …"

Arta said exasperated, "When I met you, you were mostly sitting on your arse, pissed drunk. You bit the head off of anyone who was dumb enough to talk to you. Why would anyone tell you anything useful …" Her voice died away. "Wait a moment!" She slapped her own head. "It was you!"

Edgily Jericho growled, "It was me what?"

"It was you at the Supa Dupa Mart before me! You killed all the Raiders and looted the place!" There was scarcely any need for Jericho to affirm or deny her statement. She could tell from the embarrassment on his face.

She went on, "And it was you who suggested I waited until sunset. That gave you time to get there, clean up and get back here with your plunder."

"Now just a fucking moment!" Jericho began. "It also gave me time to save your arse from an almighty kicking!"

"And to get first dibs on the loot!" He shrugged, and she enquired archly, "So if you were that concerned for my safety, why didn't you offer to go with me?"

"Because I figured you'd fuck up!" he exploded. "And bring whole sackfuls of shit down on our heads."

"Why would you think that?" she shouted back. "You saw I could shoot! I even had a friggin' silenced pistol!"

"Be reasonable!" he retorted. "I'd not a damn clue how you could handle yourself in a real fight. Even if I'd known about the silencer, it wouldn't have made a crap of difference." She looked sceptical, and he continued. "Look, I'm a Raider guard. I hear what I think's a shot. What do I do? If I'm a real dumb arse, I go check. Oh, what's that bullet just went through my skull? If I'm a bit smarter, I stay put. Nope, didn't hear anything again. Shit, someone just snuck up and cut my throat. Maybe if I'm even a bit bright, I holler. So some other guard comes over and asks what's up? I'm not sure. Shall we go check? No, let's not bother. You get the picture."

"At least you could've …" She paused. "How … how d'you learn to do that? There were two outside and nearly half a dozen inside. You killed them all by yourself without the alarm being raised?"

"More or less. How'd'you think I learned? Years of putting into practice what Lei Peng taught me as a kid. Guerrilla warfare, that's what he knew. Some ancient Chinese leader, name of Mousey Tongue, he _invented _it. Don't attack while the enemy is strong and alert. Be sneaky, wait your moment. Weaken them with traps, harass them. When the time's right, move fast and hit them hard with surprise. That's how I taught the clan to fight, and it was pretty damn successful, most of the time."

Arta considered. Then she said, in a small voice. "I'm sorry. Maybe you _did _save my life in the Mart. But will you teach me to fight in the same way?"

Jericho's dark brown eyes flicked up to meet her own subdued ones and the lines at the edges of them crinkled.

He said, "I can try, babe. I can try."

* * *

The shadows were lengthening as Arta, wearing her Vault clothes once again, threaded her way amongst the maze of walkways and terraces that were the back streets of Megaton. She saw Manya on her portico, the last rays of sunlight causing her hair to flare white in the gloaming, and altered course towards her. The byways of the town were deceptive, and it was some time before she found her way to the blue bus.

Her arrival was acknowledged with a courteous nod, and they stood a while in silence, until Manya spoke.

"Nathan's been telling me Vault 101's one of the last refuges of patriotism in the Wasteland."

Arta smiled slightly. "Perhaps it is. I think though he may have misconstrued some of the things I said."

Manya said with affection, "He's an old fool, but his heart's in the right place. The children all love him." She sighed. "We had us one of our own once but she withered and died."

Arta said, "I'm sorry."

Giving Arta a penetrating glance, Manya said, "I do believe you think you are. You remind me of myself at your age. I was a flightly young thing, but I hoped to do some good for folks, to heal some of the hurts of this world. That was before I realised that wanting and doing are two very different things." Her voice sharpened. "If you don't mind taking advice from an oldster some might believe in her dotage, don't mistakenly think that it's enough to have had good intentions. In my life I've known many that've started that way and came to nothing, or worse than nothing. The Wasteland has a habit of swallowing up people's fine schemes and spitting them out. Sometimes so that it were better if they'd never thought of them in the first place. A great deal of evil has resulted from bitterness at disillusion and failure. Some of those that once fancied themselves saints have become the worst sinners."

Arta asked, "And what about angels and demons? Like the ones you read about to the children."

"Ah, those!" Manya looked at her gravely. "The Wastes have thrown up all kinds of monsters to plague us. Yet still the most terrible demons lie in the human heart." A wintry smile passed across her aged countenance. "And yes, the brightest of angels too."

Arta said beseechingly, "Manya, do you believe in Fate?"

The old woman frowned. "That depends what you mean. Sometimes things happen that we can do nothing about, or they _already _have happened. Like the War, for example. We were always going to have us a bad few centuries after that. But as for having no power to choose our actions, of being puppets in the hands of Fate, no I don't believe that to be true. Sometimes it's hard to swim against the tide, but we can choose to do so, rather than going with it."

"So those biblical prophecies where angels visit vengeance on the earth; they could choose not to do that?"

Manya smiled again. "I see you've been listening carefully and reflecting on what you've heard. That's always the sign of a quick learner. You may yet go far in this fallen world we inhabit; whether for good or ill." She paused. "You know I've never thought of it like that, but I guess you're right. They could refuse." She looked at Arta sadly. "Maybe they'd be barred from heaven, or even cast down to hell. But they would still have the choice." She gave a deep sigh, then continued in a brighter tone, "Now why don't you tell me about this expedition you went on. I'm all agog to hear news of my old friend …"

* * *

By the time Arta arrived outside the saloon door, darkness had fallen on Megaton. She halted to lean over the rail, recalling how Lucy had helped her to be sick. And had then thrown her out on her arse. Merely a few days ago, but it seemed a long time. Since then, a fair number of the town's citizens had cheated her, insulted her, tricked her and threatened to kill her. Even Jericho had done all of those things except the last. _Despised and rejected of men. _Why did biblical phrases keep coming into her mind today?

She looked out on the curlicue of dilapidated structures, spiralling down to the irradiated pool at the centre. Manya had told her the town had been built using parts from an old 'air station' nearby. The crater itself was a result of one of its flying vehicles falling from the sky during the war and not, as was popularly thought, an atomic explosion. That made sense, for there the bomb remained, undetonated, a reminder, if any were needed, of man's inhumanity to man. From below came the cry of Confessor Cromwell: "Give yourselves to Atom, my friends! There will be no tears, no sorrow. Bathe in his glow!"

In itself, Megaton represented the many contradictions of human nature. In one aspect, it stood for stubbornness in the face of catastrophe, a dogged determination to carve a place to live in the midst of a savage wilderness. In another, it embraced those vices that had led humanity into such a plight: greed and a suspicion of outsiders leading to exclusion and violence. Its citizens were by turns brave, cowardly, wise, cunning, prejudiced, free thinking, upright, crooked, loyal and treacherous. Such a mixture of virtue and vice that had not been enough to save Sodom and Gomorrah from biblical vengeance. And where were the ten wholly righteous persons that would have turned aside the fire from heaven? Despite this, Arta found herself desperately wanting to make Megaton her home. But did Megaton want her?

* * *

Burke looked up from his corner table when Arta pushed open the saloon door to _Moriarty's_. He'd been running an imaginary conversation through his head to alleviate the tedium of waiting out time in this flea-bitten town. Reading would have made the hours and days go quicker, but he couldn't afford to lower his level of alertness in that way. Fortunately he was well versed in dealing with boredom in its various forms. Few of the residents of Tenpenny Towers excited his interest, Alistair least of all. _What a tedious old fuck! If he and his grovelling parasites represent the new world, maybe we're better sticking with the old one. _Burke however prided himself in his professionalism. Regardless of discomfort or personal feelings, a job was a job. And working in the field was infinitely preferable to massaging the egos of Tenpenny and his sycophants. Moments like this one usually compensated for the occasions when time dragged.

He watched as Arta walked directly to the bar, and was amused to notice she'd cast one very quick glance towards him, while appearing not to do so. Once there she made a pretty good job of pretending to ignore him while ordering a drink. It confirmed the impression he'd formed from personal contact and the reports he'd received. She was strong willed and intelligent, characteristics that were as problematic as they were useful. _Exquisite!_

His pulse quickened perceptibly, and he bent forward to begin rolling himself a cigar. It helped him concentrate mentally, as well as providing an aspect of the style that he considered so important. Handling this situation would require a fine degree of control; a challenge worthy of his very special abilities. He amused himself by speculating how long he would have to wait. As it was, he had plenty of time to finish preparing his cigar, and was holding the end between his teeth to light it, when Arta slid off the bar stool and approached the table, swinging her hips slightly. He couldn't help admiring the way her elegantly braided and belted Vault suit displayed her body curves to advantage.

Burke signified with a slight forward motion of his cigar that she should sit; he felt such small gestures were a mark of civilised behaviour. She complied, and he continued to smoke in silence. _Let her stew a while._

Meanwhile he maintained his close observation. Interesting that despite looking more down at heel than at their previous meeting, she had obviously made some attempt to improve her appearance for this latest one. Her hair had been combed and her face and nails cleansed. _That mysterious ability of women to enhance their beauty regardless of the difficulties._ He found himself fascinated by her intent blue-grey eyes, and the generous curve of her lips, allowing his imagination to run wild before reining it in. He must not be distracted.

Eventually she spoke. "You asked to see me."

He nodded. "Indeed. But the decision to come was yours. It's important to me that you choose this course of your own free will." He took her silence for assent, and continued. "I judged that you've had sufficient time to consider your options, to form an impression of the world into which you've been thrown. I have in addition been monitoring your progress with the varied means at my disposal."

That brought a wry smile. "You and some others, including the Sheriff."

"A most unfortunate incident." Burke waited to see how she would react to his evident knowledge.

Dully she replied, "How did you get to hear about it?"

He chuckled. "Despite Creel's warnings, little Maggie finds it difficult to keep secrets from apparently well-meaning strangers. Nevertheless I was in general impressed with how you handled the crisis. An all out confrontation was avoided and you remained in Megaton. Shooting the Sheriff would not have accorded with our plans."

She said coolly, "And would you mind telling me what those are?"

"In a moment. First I must ask whether your experiences of this putrescent cesspool have attracted you to the prospect of a better, more meaningful life for yourself?"

"You know they have."

Burke gave a satisfied smile. "Then I will explain further. The operation that I'm about to outline is one of no great practical difficulty. Indeed I could've performed it myself without trouble. Its importance lies in the attitude of the agent concerned; it's the recruitment of someone suited to the task which is our ultimate goal." He paused to inhale deeply, sent a stream of smoke from between thin lips.

"And you think that I'm suitable?"

He held up the cigar, pointing it to emphasize his words. "Your arrival here is entirely fortuitous. Another was being prepared for the task in the event of no candidate emerging."

"You mean Mei Wong. She escaped."

Now Burke really _was _surprised, as well as intrigued. This was completely unexpected. The situation however could be turned to his advantage.

"How did you know of this?"

She smiled. "Like you I have my sources."

He shrugged. "We can discuss those at a later time. For the present, that person is a convenient reference point to illustrate my requirements."

Arta said bluntly, "You were preparing her to become a killer."

_Fascinating! Her insight shows I've in no way overestimated her abilities._

He said, "That was indeed the purpose, though it wasn't intended to be obvious."

"It wasn't. It took me some time to realise she wasn't so harmless and timid as she first seemed."

Burke nodded. "Precisely why she would've have been such an effective agent. Your presence here, however, should render her defection redundant."

"Assuming I agree."

"Naturally. So I will come to the point. This town of Megaton is seen by my employer as a blight on an otherwise burgeoning landscape. It needs to … go away. Then the interests which I support can redirect the trade here into more beneficial channels and more deserving hands."

Arta echoed, "It needs to go away? How?"

Burke savoured the moment. He had been waiting to make this speech for too long, and he wanted to relish every word of it.

"The undetonated atomic bomb for which this town is named is still very much alive. All it needs is a little … motivation. With the correct equipment it can be rigged to explode. I have such a device in my hands: a fusion pulse charge. You are simply required to attach it to the bomb. Afterwards join me at Tenpenny Towers, southwest of Megaton, where I will be waiting with the detonator. There you will see the meaning of true power."

He swept his powerful gaze over her, looking for the smallest of clues in her body language. In a short time he would know whether all his efforts had been worthwhile. If they had been in vain, her reactions would surely betray her.

And then he would regretfully have to arrange for her death.

* * *

Arta listened to Burke's words, so simple, so clinical, and for a moment her mind was numbed, unable to comprehend the scale of what he was suggesting. Her eyes took in small details: the sheen of the room lights on the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, the curling of smoke from the cigar left in the ashtray, a faint mark on the lapel of his pale jacket, the hint of perspiration staining his shirt. Then her imagination threw up an image of a vast mushroom cloud rising over the crater, sucking into itself the shattered remains of Megaton. And that was all. She could not yet visualise Confessor Cromwell, and Jenny Stahl, and Sheriff Simms and all the others vaporised into fine black ash by the intense heat and scattered by the howling hurricane force winds the blast would cause.

_And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp …_

Yet somehow she had known before that great destructive power would be placed in her hands, as though it were her destiny.

Her voice was completely calm as she asked, "Tell me exactly the reward you are offering me."

With equal composure Burke replied, "In general it's what we have already discussed. Accommodation at Tenpenny Towers of the most secure and luxurious kind that can currently be provided. Pure water, hot showers, clean linen. Well-appointed rooms with proper furniture. Civilised company and highly trained guards. In addition there's the trifling sum of five hundred caps. Most of all the opportunity to become a valued employee and a member of a community of the best. To join in our great project to transform the Wasteland. And …" his voice almost purred, "… you will earn my personal admiration and esteem."

"Why me?"

"Essentially because you are an outsider in this place. The people here don't care about you, so why should you be concerned at their fate? I must admit also you have certain characteristics, certain abilities which … intrigue me. And simply by accepting the task, you will show yourself to be eminently qualified for it."

Arta nodded. Then she asked, "Can I warn anyone beforehand?"

"That would involve the risk of compromising the mission. In any case, the place, the people: they're one and the same. Believe me, they'll be far more useful in death than they ever were in life."

Arta said, "But you must be aware that I've recently formed an attachment here."

Burke nodded thoughtfully in his turn. "I am, and I appreciate your honesty in drawing my attention to it. Believe me I'm not so old that I cannot understand such sentiments. I hope you will realise in time their … limitations. However I will concede this much to yours. If you can find some way to persuade him to leave Megaton _without revealing what will occur, _well and good. And if not …" he shrugged; "…then that's too bad."

"And I can't speak to anyone else?"

"Oh no. Absolutely not. And, by the way, the offer to take up residence in Tenpenny Towers is for you alone. Only persons of exceptional quality will be allowed to join us in establishing a new world order."

Arta shifted position slightly. The warmth and light of _Moriarty's _were around her. Nearby Lucy West was flirting with Billy Creel, Nova and Gob were chatting quietly together, Nathan was debating with a member of the Church of Atom.

Observing her preoccupation, Burke commented, "Yes, they will all die. And they're completely unaware of it." He leaned forward, his voice growing in emphasis, shot through with a kind of fervour. "A strange feeling, isn't it? But an exhilarating one. To know you have the power of life and death, not only over a single person, but over many. Such a power that one might imagine only the gods possessing. But together we can have that power, you and I. Even as we sit here, we can have it over everyone that lives and breathes around us."

Arta turned to look at Burke. He appeared almost rapt, as though listening to music or a sound only he could hear. He had moved his hand to place it over her own.

She took the hand gently and raised it, as though to kiss it. He started, almost as though in a trance. Behind the horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes became fixed on hers.

Just as gently, she laid the hand down again.

"Give me the fusion pulse charge."

Burke smiled. With an air of ritual solemnity, he handed over the small, innocuous looking metal device.

He said, with quiet satisfaction, "For this achievement, you deserve a place in history."

"Perhaps I do." Arta was also smiling, as she rose from her seat. She said, "You know, when I was a little girl my father told me about the inventor of the atom bomb. I've forgotten his name. Legend says that when he witnessed the destructive power of the first atomic test, he recalled the words of an ancient religious text."

Burke stood up and faced Arta. An intense emotion seemed to move through him. "The man you refer to was Robert Oppenheimer. And the text was from the _Bhagavad Gita_." A tremor entered his voice. "_Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds_."

Arta nodded. "They say that you can't kill Death. But I'm going to try."

An expression of alarm flickered across Burke's face, and his hand moved in a blur towards his jacket pocket, but Arta was already drawing her pistol, flicking off the safety catch and levelling it at his head.

A man of his apparent age shouldn't have been able to move anything like as fast. Somehow he did. Although Arta had never drawn so rapidly and her aim was straight and true, his head and body were not where she expected them to be, and as he twisted and dodged sideways, the bullets buried themselves harmlessly in the wall behind him.

And then suddenly he was gone, winking out of existence as though he had never been there.

Arta blinked, frantically swinging the pistol right and left in a futile attempt to find a target. But there was no avoiding it. Burke had vanished like a ghost.

Shouts and screams rose from behind her. Through the confusion, she heard a hauntingly familiar voice. It said, in a lilting tone, "Drop the gun, girl, and raise your hands. I'm only asking you once."

Arta allowed the pistol to fall. She was still looking fearfully around, expecting Burke to reappear at any moment as miraculously as he had vanished, but nothing happened. She raised her hands and turned.

She faced the seamed, old yet vigorous countenance that she had previously thought belonged to a legendary demon. _One monster has replaced another._ The man wore a black, sleeveless leather jacket, and a ruffled shirt white as his curling hair and beard. His eyes were perhaps not quite as demonic as she had perceived in a state of intoxication, but they had a fierce intensity and depth to them which suggested she was confronting a person of considerable resource. Or perhaps low cunning.

He said in his soft accent, "Now there's a good girl. Would you mind telling me what you're doing firing guns in me pub? That manner of thing's no good for business, so it isn't."

Arta perceived a hush had fallen over the saloon, as the patrons listened to this exchange in fascination. She decided to speak plainly.

"I was trying to kill Mr Burke." There was a collective gasp, but the man merely grinned.

"Oh, were you indeed! And what a bold, fearless girl you are! Considering that the last person to try that kinda stunt ended up with more holes than those damned water pipes have in them."

Arta shrugged. She said, "I'm not sorry I tried. I'm sorry I missed."

There was a murmur from the crowd. The man scratched his ear thoughtfully. "Now would you mind explaining why that should be?"

"He wanted me to detonate the atomic bomb." A dead silence was followed by a confused babble as everyone seemed to start talking at once. Raising her voice above the hubbub, Arta continued, "With this fusion pulse charge. I have it right here. _He wanted me to destroy Megaton_." An absolute riot of noise erupted. Eventually the man raised his hand for silence.

"Let me see that." Arta allowed him to inspect it. Turning it over several times, he asked, "And where's Burke then? I didn't see him running off, and there's nowhere for a radroach to hide."

"He … just disappeared … into thin air. I've no idea how."

"Well here's a story and a half then! You want me not only to credit that Burke's an aspiring mass murderer, but that he can vanish away into nothing like a creature of fable."

"You have the evidence there in your hands!"

"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. This could be what you say it is. Or perhaps it's not." He lowered his voice so that only Arta could hear. "But here's my view. I'm familiar with all sorts of liars, but I've seldom heard someone invent such a tall tale and expect me to swallow it. So I'm thinking it's at least more likely than finding a ghoul at the barber's."

He smoothed his beard meditatively, and returned to speaking at a volume audible to all. "Now did anyone else witness this disappearing act for sure?"

Several people frowned, and one ventured to raise his arm, but then hastily lowered it when he caught sight of the bearded man's expression.

"No, I thought not. All right, that's quite enough fairy tales for one day. Maybe that fool Simms will want an inquest, but for meself, I've heard all I want to. Just remember next time you want to take someone out, you do it off the premises, or you'll end up food for the vultures." Addressing the crowd in general, he added, "There's nothing more to see, so let's be having you. No reason why you can't get back to your boozing."

Arta would have scarcely believed what she was hearing, except that she was fairly sure to whom she was talking. "You do realise, Mr Moriarty, that I've saved your town, your saloon and your own precious skin?"

"So you say, but it's difficult to know the truth from lies, is it not? But I see that you know my name, so it's only fair you give me yours. I'll know then who to be grateful to, so I will."

Arta detected more than a hint of sarcasm in these words, but she said, "I'm Artemesia Wendell."

"_Wendell?_ Wendell, is it?" Moriarty tugged hard on his beard. "I'm thinking then that you could be related to the scientist Dr James Wendell, formerly of Vault 101.

Arta gave a cry of surprise, "You know my father?"

"Ah, so you _are_ his daughter. I had a feeling in me bones when I saw you: the tiny baby girl, all grown up. Persistent little flower, ain't you? Then as now, it seems."

Arta experienced a strange sense of dislocation. "What are you talking about? I've met you just once before, in this saloon, only several days ago. And I was too drunk to speak."

"So you were, but the _first _time I met you here, you weren't able to speak at all, just scream and cry, seeing as you were a little suckling babe, with nary a tit to suckle. Such a tragedy that your mum should die in childbirth like that! Truly, I'm sorry."

Arta put one hand on the bar. She felt a wave of giddiness overcoming her. Moriarty's voice seem to echo hollowly, as he went on: "Your father brought you here with his Brotherhood of Steel friend; to keep you safe, you see. Before he tried getting into that Vault … hey, kid, are you all right?"

There was a roaring in Arta's ears, and she staggered. She felt as though the floor were no longer stable, as though it had tilted, and was vertical or even had become the ceiling instead. She tried to think back into the past, but could see only white light and a yawning void.

As she hung on grimly to consciousness, her only refuge seemed to be in denial.

"You're a fucking liar!" she heard herself shout. "I know who I am and where I was born! I'm Artemesia Wendell of Vault 101!"

Moriarty's voice sounded even more as though it came echoing down a tunnel; a great glowing cylinder of light which seemed to revolve in front of her eyes.

"What's this I'm hearing? Did your father tell you he was born in a Vault? That _you _were born in a Vault too? Oh, the lies we tell to those we love! Your daddy was invited into Vault 101 by its Overseer, because they desperately needed a medic. Almost twenty years have passed since James went underground, and in that time you've grown from a wee babe into a beautiful young thing, to be sure. But you were born a Wastelander, that's god's honest truth."

_Daddy? Daddy! Where are you?_

The shining tunnel sucked her in and span her round and round. And then there was nothing but the merciful dark.

* * *

*Another long and stressful day for Arta. And right now I share her need to seek relief in oblivion. Or perhaps Oblivion.*


	19. Picking up the Trail

Ch 19 Picking up the Trail

"You lied to me!"

Arta's father slid another sample under his microscope, and peered into it, ignoring her. In the harsh light of the research facility, his silvery beard and face grey with fatigue merged with the white of his lab coat to make him look as pale and insubstantial as a phantom.

"Tell me why you left the Vault!"

"Not now, Arta," he muttered abstractedly. "Another time I'll explain everything."

"I have to know what was so important that you went and left me behind!" She took a grip on her father's shoulder, and tried to shake him.

"Just a bit longer, Arta," he mumbled. "I only need to finish this one piece of work."

"There's always one more." Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. "_Daddy, please answer me!"_

"I'll make it up to you another time." Trying to move him was like budging a rock.

"Not another time, _now_!" One by one the overhead lights were dimming and going out.

Looking up her father cursed, "Damn, another power failure! Look we'll talk about this tomorrow."

"That's what you always say!" The last overhead light faded, and the room was in darkness except for a yellow lamp in the corner. The walls seemed to have closed in, and when she looked again, her father had vanished to be replaced by a stocky figure with a snowy mane of white hair and cunning eyes. The chemical odours of the lab had changed to the muskier smell of Nova's room, and the redhead herself was seated on a nearby stool, drawing casually on a cigarette.

Arta was lying on the bed where she and Nova had made love and fought. She felt slightly nauseous.

Moriarty was grinning broadly at her, showing all his remaining teeth. "So you had a little faint and now you're awake again. How are you feeling, my dear?"

Arta raised herself into a sitting position and considered the question. She felt empty of any of the emotions she should've experienced: anger, grief, regret. She recalled Moriarty's words exactly: the ones that had turned her world upside down. She no longer doubted the truth of them. They finally made sense of the feeling she'd always had that her dad was keeping something from her, something of immense personal importance. What she hadn't suspected was the extent to which he'd deceived her. Throughout all their disagreements, she'd never thought of him as anything less than a man of integrity. She'd accepted that she'd never be able emulate him entirely, yet he'd remained a model of the kind of person she'd like to be if only the world would let her.

Now she could see that he wasn't a saint but had lied to her as everyone had. A lie that he would naturally have justified to himself. A lie to protect her. But a lie nonetheless.

The implications for herself, she now perceived, were insignificant. So she hadn't been born in the Vault. But she'd lived there since babyhood, and had come to hate it. It would've have been the same either way. It was nothing. It was less than nothing.

With respect to her father and her relationship with him, however, the change in perspective was vast. Her parents had possessed a whole separate life outside of the Vault of which she knew absolutely nothing, except for those few brief words spoken by Moriarty. That was why the revelation of her father's lies had created such a shattering impact. He'd left the Vault, not simply to escape a hated existence, as she had, but to _resume _a previous life which for some reason he'd abandoned.

Until this moment she'd been too concerned with the necessities of survival to wonder much about where he'd gone. Only when she'd felt the need for his comfort or moral guidance had she instinctively yearned for his presence. Now she had a whole new reason to find what had happened to him.

She needed to know _why_ he'd left the Vault.

Summoning as much force as she could muster into her voice, she fixed her eyes on Moriarty and said, "Tell me everything you know about my father."

Moriarty chuckled. "Ah, you're indeed as resilient as I thought! Good to know that brain washing I heard goes on in the Vault hasn't entirely seized up your grey cells." Turning to Nova he said, "My dear, why don't you take yourself downstairs and ask Gob to bring us some whisky. You can stay and mind the bar while you're there. Oh, and don't forget to close the door behind you."

Nova gave a slight wince, and rose languidly. She gave Arta a not particularly friendly glance, before making her exit.

Once she'd left, Moriarty seated himself on the vacant stool, and continued cheerily, "So you're wanting to know about your daddy and why he lied to you. To be completely honest, there's not much I can tell you myself. I know James came here almost directly after you were born and your mother died. Bearing it quite well, he was, considering. But he seemed pretty desperate to get into that Vault, and he was very concerned with your safety. Didn't say much about his business except it was some project that he'd had to abandon, something maybe the Brotherhood were interested in.

So somehow he got in touch with the Overseer, and was gone for almost twenty years. And then, out of the blue, he came back, only a few days ago. Had a few questions to ask me, about the lie of the land, so to speak. And off he went again." Moriarty gave another chuckle. "So if you're wanting to find some answers, you're best asking him yourself."

Arta swallowed in a dry throat. "Where did he go?"

"Ah, now there's a _real _question you're asking me!" Moriarty's face lit up with gleeful enthusiasm. "And I'm more than willing …" There was a timid tap on the door. "Come in boy!" he roared suddenly, making Arta jump.

The door creaked open, and Gob entered, carrying a metal tray with a jar of whisky and two glasses. His nerves showed in the way it wobbled, the glassware juddering, until he set it down on the table next to Moriarty.

"Now get out of here, you stinking bag of bones!" Gob cringed, as though in anticipation of a blow, then scampered out of the room, rapidly closing the door behind him.

Taking the jar and pouring two generous measures of whisky, Moriarty proffered Arta a glass. "Have one on the house. And believe me, its not often that I get to say that."

Her hand trembling slightly as she received it, Arta tipped the glass back and took a large gulp. The whisky burned her throat, but she suppressed the urge to choke or cough.

Moriarty nodded approvingly. "I like to see a woman who can take her drink. My tavern's always here for when you feel the need for a stiff one, at the usual modest prices, of course. Now to resume our business: I'd certainly like to oblige your request. But, you see, in this world we live in, information is a commodity." He stuck his tongue between his teeth as though calculating. "So first I'd have to ask you for a trifling sum in exchange."

Arta had a sinking feeling. "How much?"

Moriarty regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes, a smile on his lips. "I can see how you'd be quite desperate to ask your dad all sorts of questions, as I would. And I'd be prepared to pay a fair amount for the opportunity. Three hundred caps."

"Three hundred!" Arta was unable to conceal her dismay. "I don't have anything like that many!"

"Do you not? Well, perhaps I can put you in the way of them then. A whore who used to work for me called Silver ran off taking four hundred caps that belonged to me. I believe she's still in the vicinity. Find her and get the caps, and you'll have the means to find your daddy, and a little more besides."

Arta felt a cloud of despondency overcoming her. "I already found her. She tried to kidnap me, so I tricked her into being captured by Raiders. They have your money, as far as I can tell."

Moriarty whistled in surprise. "Well there's a turn up! I always figured the dirty slut would come to a bad end. Still you seem an enterprising young woman. I'm sure you'll find the means to raise the caps eventually, whether you get them back off the Raiders or elsewhere. Oh, and don't be bothering asking anyone else. As soon as your daddy took my advice where to go, he left directly." He drained the remains of his whisky, and rose to his feet.

Arta desperately reached out a hand to grasp Moriarty's wrist. She said, "Please. Please tell me. I'll do anything."

"Why, bless you! There's no need to get so upset!" Moriarty's tone was still jovial, but Arta could see the hard calculation behind his eyes. "Now I wouldn't suggest this to everyone. But Silver's _departure_ has left me with a vacancy. I'm sure you know the kind of work I'm referring to. It's really not so bad as people imagine, and can be quite profitable, especially for a pretty young thing like yourself. Work for me, and you'll soon be saving enough caps to find out your daddy's whereabouts. Nova's a swell girl, and will show you all the ropes."

_The filthy old goat! _But crushed by despair, Arta hadn't the will left to offer a blank refusal. She said, "I … I'll have to think about it."

"Yes, yes, of course you will." Moriarty's tone was soothing, as he carefully freed himself from her grasp. "You just sit there and take your time. Have another drink. Then come and tell me what you've decided." He tipped another smaller measure into Arta's glass, and added, with a slight bow, "I await our next meeting with baited breath," before turning on his heel to leave the room.

Arta sat on the bed in a state of utter dejection. She had to find her father or she would go mad. But how could she get so much money? And would that be enough for Moriarty? Perhaps he wouldn't be satisfied until he'd made her his whore. She'd thought that she'd rather die than do such a disgusting job. Now even that kind of complete degradation couldn't be ruled out. _Perhaps I've deserved such a fate,_ she thought gloomily.

A sound like a hacking cough delivered by someone with final stage tuberculosis brought her from her reverie. Gob was standing in the doorway. He'd just cleared his throat. When he saw he had Arta's attention, he snuck furtively into the room, closing the door quickly and quietly behind him.

Arta could sense the ghoul's considerable fear. She asked, "What's wrong, Gob?"

Gob's face twitched reflexively. He said in a hushed tone, "Miss Arta, I heard what Colin said to you."

Surprised at this unexpected daring on Gob's part, Arta queried, "You listened outside the door?"

"No." Gob looked suddenly embarrassed. "That would've been too dangerous. You see there's a little hole in the wall between this room and the next where you can look and listen."

"Oh, I understand." Arta could deduce why Gob would know about such a hole, and to what purpose he might put it. "What did you hear exactly?"

"I know he wants you to … to do what Nova does. Miss Arta, please don't. It's not a nice job. And Mr Moriarty can be very unpleasant. If you knew how he treats Nova sometimes …" Arta thought she heard something close to a growl of anger in Gob's voice.

She said, "I'd much rather not do it, but Moriarty won't tell me where my father's gone to.

"I know, Miss Arta, but maybe he won't even if you do what he says. Take me. When I came here, I thought I'd only be doing this job a few months. It's been years now. Colin says I've got to pay off my debt to him, but it never seems to get any smaller only bigger. He charges me so much for rent and board see. And I'm too afraid to question him."

Arta felt her heart go out to Gob. "That's dreadful, and so unfair."

"Yeah. Still let's forget my troubles for the present. I want to help you with yours. But you've got to understand if Colin ever finds out, I'm a dead ghoul."

Arta said, "I won't breathe a word to a soul."

"That's what I wanted to hear. Listen carefully. Colin's got a computer in the back room downstairs. Nova told me about it. He uses it to keep all kinds of secret information about the people of this town, so that he can manipulate and blackmail them if necessary. If he thought your father's location was important, he'd most likely put it on there. I don't know what the password is, but maybe Nova does. Remember though, it wasn't me that told you."

Arta said, "Gob I could almost kiss you!"

"Don't let me stop you, hon'."

Arta turned to see Nova calmly watching her, hands on hips, with an expression of cool amusement.

"You're not gonna make out after all? In that case, Gob, you'd best get the hell out of here before someone else catches you."

* * *

"Access to Colin's computer?" Nova lay back on the pillows next to Arta, stretching herself luxuriously. "Believe me, hon', I'd _love _to oblige you. That stupid thing is his pride and joy, the place he keeps all his dirty little secrets. If that stuff came out in the open, it would teach some of the hypocrites we have in this town a lesson. Sure I could give the password to you; and then Colin kicks my sweet butt into the Wastes and I end up a Raider's plaything like Silver. Sorry, but I'll pass."

Deliberately ignoring Nova's seductive pose, Arta asked urgently. "Did you see my dad? Do you know where he was going?"

"Did I _see _your father?" Nova's voice oozed sultriness like honey. "Oh yes, I _saw _him. All of him, in fact. For his age he certainly had a well-toned bod." Relishing the shocked look on Arta's face, she added, "Apart from being memorably handsome, he had some very distinguished … assets. That qualified him for something of a discount in my book."

"You … you …"

"Yes, I fucked your daddy. Or he fucked me if you prefer. Really, my dear …" she drawled, "… you should hardly be surprised. After all those years of lonely research, he was entitled to let his hair down a little, don't you think? Don't worry, I won't embarrass you any further by telling you about his … preferences."

Arta struggled to keep her voice composed. "It doesn't matter about that now. Where did he go?"

Nova rolled up her greenish eyes in droll fashion. "Ooh, let me see … shall I give you that valuable info without asking anything in return …?"

Arta had lost patience. "Enough with the tough chick routine! Just tell me what I want to know! Before I beat it out of you!"

"… Or shall I tell you to fuck off?" Nova's tone hardened. "I already know you like it _rough. _Too bad, hon', I don't appreciate the strong-arm tactics. Search for daddy elsewhere."

Angrily Arta retorted, "I spared your life. You _owe_ me."

Nova waved a hand dismissively. "That was then, and now's now. True I was pathetically grateful at the time. Afterwards I figured you had too much to lose by killing me. And that's still very much the case." Smiling sweetly she said, "Still let's not allow this to upset our working relationship. Whenever you want to drop by … you know my fees." She rubbed her threadbare stocking tops invitingly.

Arta leapt to her feet, about to storm out of the room, and Nova added as a parting shot: "Tell Jericho he's welcome anytime too. I'm sure he'll feel the urge, sooner or later."

* * *

Jericho strolled along the darkened metallic walkway leading to _Moriarty's_, whistling slightly, his mood unusually relaxed. He ought to have been more concerned at the late evening chatter amongst the citizens: wild tales of someone trying to explode the atomic bomb, and a shooting in the saloon. But he felt little concern. Either Simms or Moriarty himself could sort it out.

Perhaps this new feeling of complacency was due to Arta's influence. It was good to have a woman again after all this time. Of course he knew from experience that some of the shine on the relationship would wear off eventually. He wondered when she would start to try tidying his shack. She wouldn't surely … he stroked his beard thoughtfully … actually ask him to _shave_?

Before he could think of any more downsides, Arta herself burst through the saloon door. When she caught sight of him, she ran towards him at top speed. He was astonished to see she was weeping. Throwing her arms around his neck, she began stammering out some confused tale about Moriarty and her father.

Jericho felt embarrassed. This was undoubtedly a consequence of taking up with a Vault girl. No Raider woman would have shamed her man in such a way, and even a townswoman might baulk at causing such a public spectacle. This was not going to do his badarse reputation in Megaton any good.

Furthermore he couldn't make much sense of Arta's story. It was something about her father betraying and lying to her. Well there was nothing very surprising in that! Parents lied to their children as a matter of course, didn't they? He could remember a few notable fibs he'd told Katrina when she was younger. The legacy of the stories passed on to him by Lei Peng had meant she was probably the only Raider child to believe, however briefly, in Santa Claus. He'd been proud of his concocted explanation of how Santa crossed the Wasteland on Christmas Eve with the help of a minigun, wired flamethrowers and power-armoured reindeer, delivering a cargo of Sugar Bombs and Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. The memory was slightly tarnished by Katrina's reaction when she'd discovered the deception; even now he winced when he recalled how she'd set fire to his beard while he'd been asleep. More trouble had been caused when Marlinka, with typical laziness, had told Katrina babies were delivered by vultures. She'd wasted a lot of shotgun shells trying to acquire one.

As far as he could make out, Arta's father hadn't beaten her while he was drunk or locked her in a dark room. _Not _doing either of those things to his own child was one reason why he, Jericho, had started to get a reputation for going soft. Unfortunately her mother had more than made up for his failure to provide her with a suitably brutal role model.

Trying to escape from the potentially humiliating situation, he interposed, "Babe, I understand you're real upset. But can we maybe talk about this inside without the whole fucking ville watching?"

Angrily she shouted back, "D'you realise that swine Moriarty won't tell me where my dad is unless I agree to work in his lousy whorehouse? Are you going to let him insult me like that? What are you going to do about it?"

Jericho groaned mentally. This was becoming worse and worse. He hated Moriarty as much as anyone, and if he ever decided that he didn't give a toss about anything anymore, the first thing he'd do was blow the loathsome cunt away. Unfortunately right now he wanted to live, and that wasn't compatible with tangling with the evil-minded Irishman. So he was going to have to lose face and back down. And in front of Arta too. But it was better than losing his head, balls or whatever the thugs siding with Moriarty might choose to cut off. The devious bastard probably had some other way to get back at him too, no doubt involving him being exiled or publicly lynched.

He said, "I ain't doing crap, and neither are you."

"Coward!" Arta screamed recklessly. "Are you afraid of him as well? I thought you were supposed to be tougher than most!"

"Will you keep your friggin' voice down?" he grated. In a harsh whisper, he continued, "There's no percentage in me taking on that fucker, so let's just forget it, okay?"

"It is so not okay …" Arta began loudly, then quickly dropped her voice to a semi-whisper as well. "What am I supposed to do about finding my dad then, tell me that?"

"I don't know, what are you supposed to do?" _I care about your dear old dad about as much as I worry about my shit smelling._

"Hold it right there, Jericho!" It was the deep voice of Lucas Simms.

Jericho half-turned to see the Sheriff and Billy Creel advancing on him, the former covering him with his assault rifle, the latter with his magnum. Caught up in the argument, he'd missed their approach in the shadows cast by the fleeting moonlight.

Deliberately he kept his hands still. "Jees, you didn't think I was about to draw out on you, Lucas?"

"I don't know, were you?" Simms sounded like he meant business.

"Ain't I your deputy?" Jericho was fairly confident that he could handle either of them alone. Both at the same time was a very different matter. He couldn't rely on Arta to help much, and in any case the whole town would rise against them. What the fuck did Simms want anyway?

The latter said curtly, "That depends on whether you're planning to protect this _outlaw._"

_Oh Christ, what's she done now?_

Arta spoke before he could think of a suitable response. "What are you accusing me of this time, Sheriff?"

Grimly Simms replied, "I warned you, young lady, to tread very carefully. And now I've reports of you shooting at someone in the saloon. Not acceptable behaviour, I'm afraid."

_Oh fuck, it must have been her. And of all the places to do it!_

Arta said, "But if you'll just listen to my explanation …"

Creel chimed in, "Why should we believe a _child abuser?"_

"Hold on, Billy, we ought to hear her." Simms was on his dignity. "This isn't kangaroo justice." _You're kidding, ain't you?_ "Go on, Artemesia."

Jericho listened with Simms and Creel while Arta explained. He could see they were shocked, as he was himself. The story about exploding the bomb had been so incredible he'd thought it someone's idle fantasy. But there seemed no reason to believe Arta was lying. As for Burke, Jericho had figured there was something odd about him. He'd had the air of a professional merc, without any of the usual equipment.

When Arta reached the point in her story where Burke disappeared, Simms whistled. "Well I'll be!"

Creel interjected, "How can that be possible, she must be lying!"

Jericho decided to add his two caps worth. "I've heard about this shit. It ain't magic, its advanced tech from the pre-war period. The Chinese used it for spying."

Simms confirmed, "Yeah, for sure that stuff exists. And it sounds like this Burke character had jacked up reflexes too. It's all of a piece; he must have some impressive backers." He turned to Arta. "So where's this _fusion pulse charge_?"

Arta's hand went halfway to her pocket, then stopped. She said in dismay, "I gave it to Moriarty when he arrested me. To prove I was telling the truth. And he's kept it!"

"Oh holy crap!" Simms smacked the butt of his rifle in frustration. "Of all the people to give it to!"

"I'm sorry … what could I do? He had a gun."

"Did other people see you pass it to him?" Arta nodded. "Well at least he can't deny he's got it. Whether he's going to hand it over is another thing." Simms stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I blame myself. I should've tried harder to get someone to defuse that thing. But it's real difficult to find anyone with the technical and scientific know how."

Creel said, "But c'mon Lucas, even a prize arsehole like Colin ain't gonna blow up his own town!"

"Not while he's alive." Jericho said. "But it's certainly about the best possible reason not to kill him. He'd have our balls in his hands for sure."

"Doesn't he already?"

Simms shook his head. "Not quite to that extent. Anyone going against him would be risking not only his or her own life but that of everyone in Megaton. And I wouldn't rule out the evil bastard detonating it maliciously if he was convinced he hadn't long to live. It's the kind of thing that would appeal to him." He sighed. "Gentleman, I suggest we try sleeping on it. Then maybe we can tackle Colin in the morning. But even if he's cooperative, we're all in danger so long as that bomb stays live."

"Wait!" All three men turned to look at Arta. Abashed she said, "I think I know someone who could defuse your bomb."

Simms exclaimed, "That's great news! Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because there's a problem about finding where he is. Let me explain …"

* * *

Colin Moriarty folded his arms and surveyed the four people standing before him with a vast sense of satisfaction. It pleased him to think that a lesser man might feel intimidated in these circumstances. Leaning forward slightly with one hand resting on his knee, Sheriff Simms had the air of a man trying to keep his temper with difficulty. Flanking him were Jericho and Billy Creel, the former standing solidly with feet apart, the latter leaning against the wall. Both looked uneasy, as though they would much rather be elsewhere. The last member of the group appeared the antsiest. Arta was impatiently flexing her fingers and shifting her weight from one slender leg to another, while chewing on her puffy lower lip.

Significantly both rifles were slung, both pistols holstered. _A rather poor bunch to be trying to put the frighteners on me, _Moriarty thought with a silent sneer. _There may be four of them, but the power's all mine._

Nova was reclining behind him, smoking nonchalantly and draping her limbs elegantly across a battered old sofa, but she counted for little in this equation. Although those whose support swung the balance in his favour were elsewhere, their presence could be felt, as if a horde of invisibles thronged the room. They were the network of contacts which he'd established throughout Megaton and the Wasteland, primarily amongst that strata of society which in more civilised times would be known as the criminal underworld. Here they were called the Dark Kindred or simply the Kindred: a loose association of black mercs, cutthroats, thieves, assassins and other low lifes, unified mainly by their mutual desire to maintain a low profile while pursuing their various, nefarious activities.

Moriarty had other, more legitimate contacts and concerns, but he knew it was the Kindred which weighed most heavily on the minds of the men in front of him, men who he might otherwise find difficult to bend to his will. Simms in particular aspired to the kind of integrity in his daily life which made the usual method of blackmail completely useless. _A self-righteous idiot with delusions of grandeur! _Creel was of a similar temperament, though his murkier past allowed more leverage, especially as it was possible to invent credible transgressions to smear him with. _The Nuka-cola swilling prick! It'd be so easy to convince people he fed Maggie's parents that buckshot sandwich himself, then took her as a trophy. _However it was far simpler to exploit the weakness he shared with Simms: his care for a child. The Kindred were naturally unscrupulous, and a word in the right ear would bring about Maggie or Harden's disappearance. A threat more effective than any visible amount of hired guns and bodyguards.

Jericho had no such dependants, but his concern for his own skin was enough. Let him come up against a top operator like Sam Walsh and he wouldn't be so high and mighty! As for Arta, she was the loosest cannon of the gang, but as long as he kept her daddy's location dangling in from of her, she'd be as tame as a kitten. Then a few months spreading her legs for his patrons would break her proud spirit. That would teach her to go running to Simms for help! He was looking forward to a sample of the goods himself, and was still indulging in a particularly lascivious fantasy, when he realised Simms was speaking again.

"Look Colin, this is for the safety of Megaton. If you're not inclined to be public spirited, it's at least in your interest to protect your home."

_Just the kind of drivel I expected from that would-be cowboy! Like I'm going to let him play the hero who saved Megaton. I can make arrangements for my own protection, thank you very much! Even if that involves moving elsewhere._ He'd already refused to hand over the fusion pulse charge on the grounds that Simms had no suitably safe location to keep it, except the Armoury, to which a number of people had access. Let the tin pot Regulator argue with that one!

He'd immediately realised the potential power possession of the device had given him. To be able to destroy a thing was to control it. True he lacked a detonator, but that was merely a problem to be solved. The fusion pulse charge could most likely be recoded to respond to a different signal. It only needed the right level of technical expertise. Too bad that fool James would never agree to do it. But he had his contacts, and it was only a matter of time before he found someone.

Moriarty felt a warm glow considering the glory of the idea. To know that with a press of a button he could reduce every one of the pricks he had to live with to ashes! That would be a fine thing, and what a way to go!

Meanwhile he had to come up with a reply. The so-called Sheriff was usually easy to bamboozle.

"So you want me to help with your wild goose chase to find James? Even if it wasn't a madcap mission to find one missing scientist in the Wastes, I'm far from delighted to be letting someone tamper with that bomb. One false move, and we'll all be ascending in a radioactive cloud to those loonies idea of heaven."

Rather to Moriarty's surprise, Simms managed a riposte. "And if we don't get someone to defuse it, there may be another attempt to prime the bomb to explode. James is by all accounts an experienced scientist; he can be trusted to be very careful."

Moriarty said, with scorn. "You mean in the opinion of his daughter, Ms Artemesia Wendell over there. Who has her own reasons to find daddy dearest. Ask her if he's ever done anything like defusing a nuclear bomb before."

Out of patience, Simms snapped, "People in that category are likely to be rare or even non-existent. We have to make do with the best that are available. So why not cut to the chase and tell us where he's gone?"

"Now then, keep your hat on! I can see you're all dead set on this foolishness. And in my view, the more suckers want something, the more they should have to pay. So I'll give you the information you want – for one thousand caps."

"One thousand!" Arta exploded. "You told me three hundred only a short while ago!"

"As I've said, my prices for information depend on the number and enthusiasm of those who want it."

Simms said angrily, "You know damn well even I can't afford that kind of sum, especially on something this risky."

"You said it." Moriarty gave a toothy grin. "Okay, I'll tell you what I'll do. You can have the location for only five hundred, if you Lucas, here and now, kiss me arse very softly and gently." He emphasized the point by turning his back, pulling down his pants and indicating the required spot.

As Simms took a pace forwards, his lieutenants hastily moved to his side, presumably with the intention of restraining any ill-advised violent reaction. It was Arta who provided a spirited response.

"Don't bother, Lucas," she said. "This decrepit old bastard hasn't any intention of helping, he just wants to crow while making us eat shit. Let's not help him play his pathetic little games; we can find some other way to do this."

Simms stopped. Forcing himself to speak calmly he said, "One of us at least is thinking clearly. I suggest, Colin, that if you want to spend your declining years in your precious saloon, you reconsider withholding that information. Now put your pants back on before I arrest you for indecency."

Moriarty was furious. The little Vault slut had spoiled his fun! Hitching up his britches, he growled, "You'll never know where daddy's gone until you've sucked my cock dry and been fucked up the arse by every sicko that chooses to drop by here for a month of Sundays. And until you've learned to respect your betters."

Arta jeered back, "I'll never become one of your pitiful whores, you sad old man! Keep your withered dick for pissing your pants with."

She and the others turned to leave.

Moriarty shouted after her, "You'll regret you said that, you mouthy piece of cunt!"

He had the frustrating sense that his words had fallen dead. Turning furiously back to Nova, he barked, "And you can stop your smirking and get back to work!"

As they walked away from the saloon, Creel said admiringly to Arta, "I've not often seen someone stand up to Colin like that. It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but you've got my respect anyway."

Arta said, "Thanks Billy, I'm proud to have earned it."

Simms said, "I'm glad I didn't give him the satisfaction of completely losing my rag, but we're still no further forward."

Jericho said, "Don't worry Lucas, there's always Arta's Plan B."

"Arta's Plan B?" Simms repeated querulously. "What the hell's that?"

Jericho and Arta exchanged glances, and the latter said pertly, "All things considered, Sheriff, I think you're better off _not _knowing what my Plan B is."

* * *

Billy Creel picked up a number of colourful balls, and began to juggle with them. Then, to greater applause he repeated the trick with lighted torches, sending them spinning up into the blackness of the night. Catching them again, he alternately put them to his mouth, to breathe out streams of flame, causing cheers to rise from the ring of onlookers

Nearby Maggie and Harden stood inside a semi-circle of upturned concave metal lids placed on garbage pails, each one marked around the rim with numbers. Carefully they used wooden sticks to beat out a more or less tuneful rhythm.

Behind them Nathan had draped the terrace with an awning in the patriotic colours of the American flag. He was handing out sparklers and firecrackers to passers-by. Manya had prepared a rough griddle on which she was cooking Mirelurk cakes and other delicacies, selling them at prices which seriously undercut Jenny Stahl's. The latter was, however, still kept busy serving food to Wastelanders gathering in the crater below to view the entertainment.

Watching from her position crouched near the rear entrance to _Moriarty's,_ Arta commented: "Billy's a natural performer. Clearly he's a man of many hidden talents."

"Yeah, I guess you could put it that way." Jericho was squatting in the shadows next to her. "Manya told me that for a while he was some kind of wandering singer or conjurer travelling with the caravans. Some crap like that."

Billy joined with Nathan to sing a rousing chorus of _The Star Spangled Banner, _and Arta said admiringly, "He can certainly hold up a tune. And he cuts quite a figure. That eye patch gives him rather a dashing look, don't you think?"

"I can't really say, but I heard he lost his dick in the same fight that cost him his eye. Kinda figures with that high pitched wailing."

"Oh, c'mon!" Arta nudged Jericho reprovingly. "You sound like you're jealous!"

"You've gotta be kidding me, babe!" Jericho growled. "I gave up worrying about that shit years ago."

"Really, well that's good then." After a pause, she continued in an innocent tone, "Because Lucas wants him to be in on the mission."

"What the fuck! We don't need any extra help!"

"How'd d'you figure that? We don't even know where we're going yet!"

"I know the Wastes. The more people crawling around them, the more trouble it brings."

"Billy said he was happy to take point while you covered his back. And he's gonna try to make me some combat armour if I can get the materials."

"Jesus, you sure _have _been chatting cosily, ain't you? I thought you two hated each others guts."

"We got off to a bad start. But now I think we're getting along just fine. He's really quite _pleasant _to talk to." She glanced to see Jericho's reaction to this, but he wasn't taking the bait.

Instead he pointed. "Look, if anything's gonna get their attention, this'll be it."

Nathan had shambled over to where he'd arranged some home made rockets and other fireworks. He began setting them off. Arta gasped as one soared into the night sky and exploded overhead in a shower of red and white sparks.

She said excitedly, "This is great! We never had anything like this in the Vault!"

"I ain't surprised. But try not to 'ooh' and 'ah' too much. We're supposed to be keeping a low profile here."

"Okay! I guess if this works we're gonna miss the best part of the show." Reflectively she said, "We only had entertainment on people's special birthdays or on something called Overseer's Day. Then we'd play baseball and eat jelly and ice cream. And give each other presents. On my tenth birthday, my dad gave me a BB gun, and let me shoot a radroach. I got a comic from Amata, and Old Lady Palmer made me a sweet roll. Butch tried to take it, so I punched him in the eye."

"Yeah, sounds like a blast!" He suddenly put a finger to his lips. "Shush, here they come!"

Colin Moriarty and Nova had strolled out onto the narrow walkway that ran in front of the saloon. They were talking animatedly, and Nova was laughing. They stopped by the rail to look at the fireworks lighting up the corrugated iron structures with flashes of white and pale blue, the sharp detonations echoing across the crater.

Jericho hissed, "Right, this is it. Go!"

Arta pulled open the back door to the tavern, which she'd already unlocked with a bobby pin. As arranged with Gob, the lights were off. Keeping low, she moved rapidly inside. Jericho followed her, quietly shutting the door behind them.

In the darkness, the computer was easily located, glowing green on a desk right in front of them. On the far left an open doorway led through to where Gob stood behind the bar, silhouetted against the yellow light of the main room.

Jericho took up a vigilant position covering the doorway. Arta immediately seated herself in front of the computer. From here, she was invisible to anyone in the bar area, allowing her to focus her whole attention on the task before her. Quickly she jacked a cable from the pipboy on her arm into the computer, and started running a decryption programme. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

His voice barely more than a breath, Jericho whispered, "How's it going?"

"Not so good. This security's tougher than anything I've encountered. Can you please not distract me with pointless questions?"

Jericho grunted and remained silent. Arta felt her heart beat rising. The code breaker was taking too long, and might not even work. She needed to do something different. She considered. Perhaps if she combined more than one program, and ran them simultaneously? The extra speed could reduce the time taken geometrically. Or the whole thing could grind to a halt. She took only a microsecond to decide the risk was worth taking. The opportunity might not come again.

She tapped in the necessary code to activate the sequence. Her pipboy showed her the merged programmes running, but the screen remained ominously blank.

Beside her Jericho hissed, "Get a move on, they're coming back in!"

There was no point telling him she was doing everything she could. Faintly she could hear Gob's raspy voice: "Mr Moriarty, I'd like to discuss a small wage rise with you …"

"What?" she heard Moriarty roar. "What did you say, you filthy creature?"

"Please, sir, Mr Moriarty …" Gob quavered. Then he gave a shriek. Arta shuddered. Gob was playing his part to the end, but would it do any good? She felt desperate. All this couldn't be in vain, it couldn't!

Suddenly writing began to scroll across the screen.

"I'm in! I'm beginning the download." Her brow was running with sweat, her palms damp as she tapped the keys.

"Great! But hurry!"

From the nearby room came the sound of Moriarty's enraged voice. "I take you in, I keep you in the kind of accommodation your degenerate kind can only dream about, I give you gainful employment … and you repay me by carping about a few caps? Take that, you dirty animal, and that!"

Jericho whispered urgently, "Come _on!"_

"Done it! Closing down the program!"

"Get your rotting carcase back to your room! Nov, take over at the bar, I've got some things to do out back."

Jericho was already opening the door. "For fuck's sake, let's go!"

The sound of footsteps was right behind them.

* * *

Arta clutched her heart, which was still oscillating painfully. "That was too close!"

Jericho nodded briefly. "Yeah, you said it." He gave her a strained look. "D'you reckon you got the dope?"

"There was no time to check. I'll sift the downloaded data now." She input the search terms '_James_' and '_Wendell' _into her pipboy.

The intervening moments seemed like an age, but almost immediately the pipboy found a data match.

Arta began reading the corresponding entry: '_So out of nowhere James came back here to Megaton…'_

Eventually she gave a sigh of relief. "It's there. He's gone to Galaxy News Radio." _And it tells the same story of him bringing me here as a baby._

Jericho said, "Galaxy News? Why would he want to go see that self-righteous jerk-off Three Dog?"

"Because he_ is_ a self-righteous jerk-off, in a manner of speaking. Only a very scientifically gifted one. I can see them getting on famously, massaging each other's egos, convincing one another they're gonna save the world."

Jericho gave her a look. "You're still mad at your dad, eh?"

"I'm mad that he lied to me and left me in the Vault."

"Yeah, so you said. But you still care enough to go find him."

"Of course I do. I love him." She considered, then said reflectively. "And I hate him too. Kinda."

Jericho sucked air through his teeth. "Family's always difficult, eh? Well, if your dad wanted to indulge in some mutual backslapping, he picked a damn awkward place to do it. GNR's right in the heart of the central DC hellhole, wall to wall supermutants and all. Getting there is gonna be one mother-fucking white knuckle ride." He scratched his beard. "You want my opinion?"

"Try me."

"We can't do this in one trip. You need more than weapons training and better equipment. You need experience out there in the Wastes Otherwise you've got a snowball in hell's chance of surviving in that meat-grinder."

"But what if my dad moves on?"

"We're gonna havta take that risk. It ain't gonna help your cause or ours if you get yourself wasted. At least up to now he's told someone where he's gone. Just pray he keeps doing it."

Arta pondered, and shook her head. "The more I think about it, the crazier the whole thing seems."

"That's 'cos it's a crazy world out there, babe." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Look, you're gonna have plenty of time to decide before we go anywhere. How about we go get us something to drink?"

"At _Moriarty's? _You know I've seen enough of that place for one day. Go if you like, I'll meet you back home."

"Sure, no problem."

Looking round at the crowds dispersing from around Manya's van, she thought, _Looks like the show's over. Too bad._

Some time later, she had stripped to her underwear and was lying on Jericho's bed, idly perusing the data she'd stolen from Moriarty. As Nova had said, it seemed mostly a record of the people he had compromising information about, or his personal speculations on their proclivities. Her father was mentioned under _Non-residents_, as was Mr Burke. The memo about the latter was fascinating but told her nothing of importance.

Turning to _Residents_, she immediately spotted the name 'Jericho'. After a moment's hesitation, she began reading the entry.

_Jericho's been a bad boy. I heard all about him and Jenny Stahl. Tried to slip her some of the old gun barrel while she's yelling no …_

She stopped, feeling suddenly cold. Could it be true? Moriarty was a liar, but why would he keep lies on his own computer? She remembered Jenny's words, and the apparent hatred with which she'd spoken them: _He's a murderer, and a rapist._ Then there was the way Jericho seemed to tread on eggshells whenever he was around Jenny. Quite different to his normal behaviour with almost everyone else.

When he returned, Arta was already in bed, a blanket pulled over her head. She could hear him removing his armour, his breathing harsh. As he came over to lie down next to her, she could smell the familiar strong odour of drink and cigarettes.

He started to massage her shoulder under the blanket. "Hey, babe."

Wriggling she said, "Not now, okay, I'm tired."

"Aw, c'mon babe." He slipped his other hand downwards to cup her left breast.

Pushing the hand firmly away, she snapped, "No, I don't want to!"

He stopped, and sounded puzzled. "Alright. Look, is anything wrong?"

"No, nothing. I told you, I just need to be left alone to sleep."

_And I don't want you touching me right now._

* * *

*'To be able to destroy a thing is to control it'. This is more or less straight out of Frank Herbert's _Dune_, in which Paul Atreides' control of the giant sandworms which made the all important spice allowed him to effectively blackmail the rest of the galaxy by simply threatening to destroy them. Why did they not call his bluff when he would also suffer if he carried out his threat? I suppose you have to ask yourself the question whether you would take the risk that the person wasn't sufficiently ruthless, or crazy or desperate to make good on their promise to unleash hell. Think about how mutually assured destruction (MAD), otherwise known as the nuclear balance of terror was supposed to work. Not so very different.

At my friend's daughter's school fair they had their own steel band. I was impressed with how well they played until someone pointed out the numbers written on the drums made things a lot easier, even for quite small children.

Apologies if there wasn't so much action in this chapter. But a trip into the Wastes beckons!

As it's practically Christmas, this seems a good time to thank my readers and reviewers for their support of this rapidly lengthening opus. I hope Santa brings you all Sugar Bombs!*


	20. Point Three O Eight

Ch 20 Point Three O Eight

"I can hardly believe it's still here."

The black sniper rifle gleamed in the morning sun, its sleek, precise lines in sharp contrast to the bleached and rotting corpse it lay beside. To Arta it seemed a thing of beauty, yet the hideous presence of death was a reminder of its true nature.

Jericho grunted. "Those little buggers running around were pretty good reasons for giving Grayditch a wide berth. Looks like our trip was worth the hassle though."

Arta let her hand run lovingly along the smooth barrel, her fingers tingling with anticipation. She wanted to snuggle the stock against her shoulder, sight through the scope and feel her finger on the trigger as a lover yearns to touch her chosen soul mate. At the same time she avoided looking too closely at the remains of Lieutenant Paul Wolfe of Talon Company. Vultures and other scavengers had been at work to pick clean the unprotected flesh, and only a few tufts of red hair were left around the skull.

Seeing this, Jericho said roughly, "Before you start playing with your new toy, I want you to strip the armour off that corpse."

Arta made a face. "It smells, and god knows what its like inside. I think I'm good with the Raider stuff."

"Bullcrap! Being well armoured is as important as having powerful weapons. We ought to be able to make something out of this that'll be near as damnit full combat armour. Any which way… " he began examining the boxes of ammunition near the ruined second floor windows "… you can't afford to start getting squeamish now. If you're gonna survive in the Wastes, you'll need to get used to scavenging from every stinking, rotting carcase you can lay your hands on."

Shuddering Arta complied with his instructions, trying not to meet the blank stare of the eyeless sockets. She'd got used to Jericho pushing her to the limits of her ability, fatigue levels and tolerance, even if his more brutal demands aroused her anger. She sometimes wondered whether he was exacting revenge for her withdrawal of sexual favours, though he'd apparently accepted the reason she'd given him: to cultivate a more professional relationship between them while preparing for the expedition to GNR.

She remembered when he'd bawled at her for wanting to give up doing yet more pull ups from the rail outside his shack.

"If I fall and break my neck, they'll be no one to persuade my dad to help you out!"

"_Just fucking do it! If you're so chicken shit about falling, then you won't."_

Or when he blindfolded her as she'd stripped down her newly acquired hunting rifle for the hundredth or so time.

"You're kidding, aren't you? How can I pull this apart and back together when I can't see."

"_You can feel, can't you? D'you think your gun's only gonna break when you're outside in daylight? If you're trapped down the metro without a working rifle, and a horde of hungry ghouls nearby, you'll be wanting to kiss my arse for teaching you to repair it in the dark."_

The majority of the time she'd been prepared to accept the logic of his arguments, and to devote every spare hour of the day to practising under his direction. With the help of a rifle lent by Sheriff Simms and an improvised firing range consisting of painted targets, bottles and cans swinging from ropes, she'd learned to master the art of aiming and firing a weapon that kicked like a mule. Once she'd become accustomed to that, her accuracy and speed of shot approached and then exceeded her proficiency with a pistol. And always there seemed that familiarity with weapons which could perhaps be explained by her time on the simulator …

Actual firing took up only part of a typical days training; the rest was filled with activities such as maintenance of weapons and armour, a program of exercise of which the toughest drill sergeant would've approved and any other perversely difficult physical or mental trial which Jericho saw fit to inflict on her. He seemed to take a sadistic delight in this, which Arta, hanging from a rope inches over an irradiated pool or treading carefully blindfold through a roomful of sharp objects couldn't help resenting. Particularly as he often watched her struggles guffawing and knocking back yet another whisky bottle. She herself had developed an almost monk-like regime of abstinence, which was the only way she could cope with the demands the training placed on her body, let alone her mind.

This foray to Grayditch was another opportunity for him to lecture her. _"In the Wastes, take the high ground as much as possible. That way you can see further and use the slope to hide behind. And always be on the lookout for the nearest cover, and move towards it."_

Having completed her unpleasant task, Arta was able to use the scope of her new weapon to survey the ruins of Grayditch from the 'high ground' of the second storey. The sun-warmed length of the rifle felt comfortable in her arms, as though it had been made to fit there. She could pick out several small fires amongst the rubble, wrecked cars and miscellaneous garbage, clearly the work of the fire ants she could see crawling to and fro with almost mechanical regularity.

"We've been lucky." Arta started at Jericho's voice close to her ear. "There are another twenty rounds of .308 sniper rifle ammo here, one of the hardest types to get hold of. You can never tell when it's going to be available to trade, and usually you'll need to do a lot of scavenging to find even a few rounds. We can't afford to waste it on the firing range. So now's your chance to use it in the field without it being a matter of life and death. Shoot me that fire ant down there, and we can go and check the other mercs bodies. Their armour most likely will be incinerated, but if they've got half the other gear this stiff was carrying it'll be worth the risk."

"And if I miss and the ant tries coming up here?"

"I doubt it'll be able to work out exactly where the shot came from by sound alone. If you could hit its antennae, it'll go crazy-ape bonkers and attack anything around it, including its ant buddies. That would be some shot from this range though."

"You're quite the entomologist, aren't you?"

"Say what?"

"Never mind." She snuggled the rifle stock closer, and trained the scope on the head of the distant ant, trying to still her breathing and body movement so it remained perfectly steady. The sound of the gun as she squeezed its trigger was between a bark and a hiss, much quieter than expected, and the recoil was easily handled. Below the ant twitched, then began running frantically in circles.

Beside her Jericho commented: "Not so hard for you, it seems. There's a sound and flash suppressor on the muzzle, and something to reduce the recoil. That's a quality piece of hardware. Now watch the fucker go out of its tiny ant mind." There was a barely noticeable rise in the pitch of his voice. Arta suspected he wouldn't have predicted a hit with the first shot. Indeed she'd surprised herself. Yet something about handling the weapon made her feel already that it belonged to her.

The frenzied ant had encountered a nest mate, and the two were facing one another head on, sending out streams of flame. Watching the spectacular combat, Arta spared a thought for Dr Weston Lesko, the scientist who was still presumably hidden somewhere nearby. Quite possibly he too had the skill to defuse Megaton's bomb. Should she suggest searching for him? Immediately she dismissed the idea. She was going to find her dad no matter what. She needed all the help she could get to do so. If that left Megaton at risk, it was too bad. Maybe she could leave Simms a note about Lesko once the expedition to GNR had begun.

The ants appeared very resistant to their own fire, but eventually one weakened, and curled up like a spider in the fierce heat. The other turned about to scuttle back the way it had come. Without prompting, Arta raised the sniper rifle in a smooth motion, and calmly shot it through the head, chitin shattering in all directions.

She turned to look at Jericho. He was staring hard at her. Then he said, a trifle testily, "Good shot. You handle that gun like a natural."

Unable to suppress her thoughts, she burst out, "I feel as though I was meant to have it."

He shook his head. "You come out with some weird things at times. Let's see if we can find some more booty."

* * *

On their return to Megaton, Arta's first visit was to the Water Processing Plant to see if Old Walter had any jobs for her, and to give him some scrap metal she'd found. Her aptitude for repairing weapons and armour had led to Jericho asking where such skill had been acquired, and when she'd explained about her job as Vault maintenance technician, he'd advised her to see Walter. Sure enough the kindly if crotchety old man had set her the task of mending leaks in Megaton's dilapidated system of water pipes.

She'd arranged to bring him useful pieces of scrap and to help with routine maintenance, for which he paid her ridiculously generous sums of caps. In fact this was simply a cover that allowed Simms to funnel town funds into the expedition.

"Got anything for me, missy?" the white bearded technician asked as she arrived.

"Only half a dozen pieces this time, Walter."

"Here's your caps then." He gave her a wink. Although he frequented the saloon as much as anyone, Walter's detestation for Moriarty meant that he was more or less in on the plan. Now he asked, "Any trouble on the home front?"

"Nothing obvious." If Moriarty suspected anything, he'd given no sign, but then the kind of people he dealt with wouldn't be expected to leave a calling card.

With plenty of caps and goods to trade, Arta and Jericho were assured of a warm welcome at _Craterside Supply _nearby_, _where Moira appeared to have conveniently developed amnesia with respect to Arta's rudeness on a previous visit.

Handing her a Talon submachine gun, Arta asked, "Do you have the parts to upgrade this?"

"I certainly do." Moira cheerfully inspected the weapon. "It'll cost in the region of two hundred caps, but you seem to have plenty these days. And you'll have yourself a gun that's fast and deadly at close quarters." She smiled brightly. "Just the thing for ghouls, except our dear old Gob, of course."

Rather reluctantly Arta placed her Beretta on the counter. It had served her well, but there was a time to let go. "Then I won't be needing this anymore."

"And that'll just about cover you for the upgrade." Moira stowed the pistol away. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Yes. I'd like to buy some ammunition for this sniper rifle."

"Point three o eight?" Moira eyed Arta's new acquisition. "It's a nice looking piece, but not as nice as the one belonging to the guy who came in today and bought all the rounds I had available. His was a custom job. So you're out of luck there."

Jericho had shown little apparent interest in the proceedings, but now he asked, "He had a custom rifle, did he? What was he like?"

Moira gave him her nearest approximation to a coy look. "I suppose you could've called him devilishly handsome. Tall, blonde, with one of those goatee beards. Well equipped too, and he certainly knew his weapons. Bought quite a lot of stuff as well as the sniper rounds. Oh, one other thing. He wore quite distinctive sunglasses. The sort it's difficult to get hold of these days. He kept them on, even though it's dark in here, so I couldn't tell the colour of his eyes. He was real polite though, not like some people you meet."

Arta wondered whether this was meant as a dig at her. Probably not, as Moira usually found a way to ignore or gloss over unpleasant realities. Turning to Jericho, who was frowning, she asked, "Someone you know?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Scratching his balding pate, he added, "Reckon we're near enough ready to rock. I'd say it's about time for a trip further out into the Wastes. Starting tomorrow."

* * *

Arta dreamed.

She saw a vision of her life passing before her in many battles. In all of them she wore black combat armour, a black helmet and carried a black sniper rifle. Innumerable enemies fell before her, of many races and types: black, white, Hispanic, Asian, supermutant, ghoul, and other creatures that she didn't even recognise or know the name of. Male or female, young or old, it mattered nothing; they were scythed down with accurate and lethal fire, most before they were even aware of the presence of the Reaper amongst them. The scenes replayed themselves over and over again, with merely a change of cast, and always there was the target in the crosshairs, the cough of the gun's report and the splattering of blood and organs, until carnage piled upon carnage had sickened her to the guts.

And around her there was a ghostly whispering, that began low and grew slowly louder and more distinct. _'The Angel of Death; she comes like a thief in the night; beware the Angel of Death.'_

And then the vision altered and stabilised. She stood on a darkened hillside, close to a house built of red bricks. Around her graves and white monuments stretched away into the far distance. A light breeze stirred the grasses. Nearby stood a man in a long coat, the moonlight glimmering in his hair and beard. She went to kneel before him.

Placing a hand upon her forehead, he said, '_You have done well, my child.'_

When Arta screamed, Jericho awoke at once, his hand reaching automatically for a weapon. Instead he encountered the Vault woman's sweating and shaking naked form, sobs issuing from her throat as though bubbling up from an inexhaustible spring. Taking a fierce hold on her shoulders, he reassured himself that there was no actual threat, before relaxing his body into hers. Her tears fell like water on his bare skin.

When the torrent of them had at last begun to slacken, he said gently, "There's nothing to be afraid of. You must've been dreaming."

Arta gave a shudder, as though she sought to free herself from some evil memory. She asked, gasping, "What have you done to me?"

"What have I done?" Jericho was flabbergasted. "I ain't done nothing, babe … nothing bad anyway."

"You've helped me to become … something twisted!"

Jericho considered. Then he said, "I've helped you to become a _survivor_."

Her eyes staring into his had a terrible sorrow in them, so that it seemed to him for a moment as if she had aged many years. Then her head sunk forward over his shoulder, and she spoke so low he could barely hear her. It sounded like the religious gabble Manya sometimes read to the children.

"_Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me."_

_

* * *

_

"I just want to know where they went," the man in black said.

_He might as well have added, 'old woman', _Manya thought. _Though he__ speaks politely enough, there's something in his smile, and in the way he stares out from behind those sunglasses that implies contempt, not just for me, but the world in general. To him we are all cattle to be used as he wills._

She said, "I can't tell you."

The man's smile was unchanged. He said, "You know the people here. So you will know where I can find the information I require. I will obtain it … one way or another." He tilted his head to look downwards. Following his gaze, Manya saw Nathan shuffling across the crater with the halting gait of advancing age, his hands gesticulating as he buttonholed another passer-by to speak about his beloved Enclave. She thought how quiet the ancient bus would be without the sound of his voice.

The man turned back to Manya without speaking. The weight of his silence and the burden of her years pressed down upon her. To avoid having to look into those cold eyes again, she fixed her own on the rounded muzzle of the sniper rifle slung from his shoulder.

She said, "Talk to the Stockholm brothers. One of them should be able to tell you."

* * *

Jethro Stockholm clambered down the last few rungs from the high perch of his watchtower. At the end of a long shift, he was looking forward to a cold beer in _Moriarty's_. Whether or not the dirty bastard pissed in his still, it was a reward for all the hours he had maintained constant vigilance on behalf of the town's citizens.

His devotion to that particular task came from more than a sense of public duty. There was a kind of peace that came over him from being isolated and above the affairs of the town below. And the lengthy periods of physical inactivity freed his mind to roam spaces in his imagination far away from grim and grimy reality. He knew that Paul felt the same, with the kind of instinctive synchronicity that existed between twin brothers. Though they were destined to spend much of their lives apart, their close resemblance in body and mind was ascribed by the more superstitious residents to telepathy.

But however good for the soul, enough was enough. It was time for some r&r. He turned away from the ladder and straight into the swinging rifle butt which hit him like a club. The world went temporarily dark.

When he came to, he was aware that his mouth was gagged and his arms bound behind his back and intertwined with a metal pole. A blurred face swam before his vision. It seemed to have enormous eyes below swept back blonde hair. No, of course, sunglasses covered the eyes.

The pole behind him was gripped and twisted. Immediately he felt as though his arms were being pulled out of their sockets, and his spine bent backwards. He tried to scream, but the gag prevented him.

Through the pain and the banging in his skull he heard a man's voice with a pleasant intonation: "That was just a small sample. The longer you take to answer my questions, the worse it will become."

Still gagged he was unable to make a reply before the pole was yanked again, and the pain increased to a seemingly unbearable intensity. _Why the hell did I volunteer for this?_

Finally the gag was freed, and the voice came with greater urgency: "The Vault woman and Jericho; where did they go?"

He wanted to tell his interrogator everything immediately. But that wouldn't be convincing enough. He shook his head wordlessly.

The gag was replaced, and this time the agony was truly horrifying. Tears came unbidden to his eyes, and his vision returned to a blur.

When he was able to speak again, he gasped weakly, "South. They went southwest. Towards Tenpenny Towers."

* * *

"I still don't understand the need for such an elaborate charade," Arta said. "Why couldn't we just tell everyone that's where we're going?"

"Too fuckin' obvious, of course," Jericho explained less than patiently. "If every Tom, Dick and Harry appeared to know, anyone trying to tail us would suspect. So instead we tell a select group of people that the Stockholm brothers have the info. Much more convincing."

"I guess. But I hope it doesn't get them into trouble."

"They volunteered. It's better that way if things get rough."

The two of them were lying flat near the top edge of a broken section of bridge, sticking up from the Wasteland at a near forty-five degree angle like a highway leading to heaven. From this position they could observe a wide section of the lands north and south of the Potomac. Not far in front and below them was the partially intact bridge that the Raiders who'd captured Silver had been guarding. It appeared to be deserted. To the northwest the land sloped rapidly down to the narrow channel through which the toxic waters of the river oozed sluggishly, and in the distance yet another wrecked overpass marked the location of Arefu, Lucy West's former home. To the east ran the rocky ridge containing, on the further side, the sealed entrance to Vault 101. The highlands continued round to the west, eventually leading to another similar line of cliffs jutting northwards in a great spur towards the river.

Glancing east, Arta wondered what had happened to Amata and whether she missed her exiled friend and lover. _She's probably got plenty of time to think about me anyway. If only I could've somehow persuaded her to leave!_

Returning her attention to the rocky hills to the west, she asked, "Is that where we're meeting Billy after he's finished laying the false trail towards Tenpenny Towers?" Jericho nodded. "But if we're going northwest towards Arefu, why don't we follow the slope straight down to the river valley? There aren't any Raiders left on this bridge to spot us."

"I told you, didn't I, that you keep to the high ground where possible in the Wastes. If we follow the ridge round … " he described a quarter circle from southwest to northwest, "then we'll maintain our height advantage practically all the way to Arefu. And we'll be able to look down from those cliffs towards the river's edge with little chance of being seen first. Not to mention that the rocks won't show our tracks so easily."

"Okay, I suppose that all makes sense." Arta turned to look wistfully to the southwest. Miles beyond the ridge, Tenpenny Towers showed like a tooth against the skyline in the golden early morning light. She could have been there with Burke, safe and comfortable, instead of embarking on a hazardous journey across the Wastes. The price had been too high. But what would be the toll in blood for the road she was about to tread?

* * *

"I told you before, Roy," the gate guard at Tenpenny Towers said, "No ghouls allowed inside. How long's that gonna take to penetrate your thick zombie skull?"

The rasping, choking voice was made hollow by the intercom and sounded particularly gruesome.

"Some day you smoothskins will have to accept us as equals. It might as well be some day sooner."

"You're just wasting time, Roy." The guard spoke in a bored tone. Idly he examined his well-pressed tan uniform and polished shoes for marks. There were none.

"What if I pay to get in? Just me. Once you people get used to a ghoul living with you, you'll realise how dumb you were to fear us."

"Are you trying to bribe me? We're paid very well here; you couldn't offer me enough."

"You reckon? How's five hundred caps sound?"

The guard's expression changed from one of boredom to avarice. Switching the intercom off, he summoned a colleague from nearby.

"Listen, that ghoul Phillips is outside. He says he's brought five hundred caps as an entrance fee. Just for him. How 'bout we let him through and … " he tapped his gleaming assault rifle meaningfully "… earn us a little extra bonus while taking out the leader of those pestilent zombies. Gustavo'll probably commend us as well."

The other guard said a trifle doubtfully. "Shouldn't we check with Gustavo first?"

"And miss out on the caps? We can handle one pathetic walking corpse." The second guard hesitated, then nodded. Both unslung their assault rifles. The first guard depressed the intercom, and said, "All right, Roy, you can come inside if you bring the caps. But no tricks."

"Sure thing. No tricks. Open the gates."

The guard pulled a lever, and with an electric whine the front gates began to slide apart. The two men raised their weapons to cover the entrance, sliding back the bolts ready to fire.

A ghoul wearing leather armour was standing just outside. His bony hands were raised either side of his putrescent scalp, which showed the withered remains of bright red hair.

Seeing the levelled weapons, he cried out hoarsely, "No, don't shoot!"

"Now! Go for the head! Fire!"

The ghoul staggered and twisted under the hail of bullets, his hands clawing the air. He collapsed backwards to the ground.

"Way to go! Drag his body in here, and I'll get ready to close the gates." As the second guard scurried forward, the other reached for the door lever.

He never touched it.

* * *

A rust red rocket pointed towards the clear blue of the heavens in a hopeless reminder of humanity's once great aspirations. But the deserted cluster of buildings surrounding it was at an elevation that gave Arta a feeling of being closer to the sky. She felt uneasy and exposed: there were many places here that could conceal enemies. Looking round at the shattered windows of the diner, the ruined shops, and the steps leading to the metro, she sensed that someone was watching them.

Jericho perhaps had the same instinct, as he signalled that they should make for the nearby cover of the diner. From the doorway, Arta peered out as nervously as a rabbit crouched in the entrance to her hole. She touched Jericho's shoulder with her elbow, before raising her sniper rifle.

"Look!"

From the partial shadows created by the metro stairway, a man crawled, carrying a large handgun. He wore crossed bandoliers and Raider-style armour that left his chest and one shoulder bare, but the exposed skin was somewhat pale.

"Hold your fire, for Christ sake!"

Sighting through the scope, Arta apprised that the supposed Raider had a patch over his right eye and a bandana covering his head.

"It's Billy!"

Still keeping low, the Megaton deputy and trading agent scuttled across the intervening space to join them.

Eying his gear, Jericho commented, "This was the best you could do?"

"I'm just glad Maggie didn't see me in this get up," Creel growled. "And I need to scavenge some sun block. Is this really necessary?"

"Don't you want to fit in with the rest of the gang?" Jericho indicated Arta, who was wearing her Raider armour, along with a horned helmet and painted spiral markings on her neck and shoulders. "We'll be going through the turf of the Deathseekers, the South Potomac clan. Blending with the natives could save us a helluva a lot of trouble. And by the way, I'd lose the lame handkerchief on your noddle, if I were you."

"Fuck that, I already feel like a cooked squirrel. How come you ain't changing clothes too?"

"Because they _are _my fuckin' tribe … or at least they were. I have the marks and know the signals." Jericho gave Creel a sharp glance. "So did you notice anyone trying to follow you?"

"Not so I could tell, though I backtracked several times. That doesn't mean someone hasn't managed to tail us."

"Okay, we'll wait an hour to see if anyone turns up. Then we need to crack on to make the most of the daylight. Crossing those rocky heights could take a while." Jericho pointed north.

Arta said, "Does it matter? In the dark, we're less likely to be spotted, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but we won't be able to see far either," Creel explained. "And predators like Guai and Radscorpions hunt by smell and sound. Trekking across the Wastes is better done in daytime." He smiled, "Don't worry, Raider girlie, I've got your back."

* * *

Susan Lancaster was in a foul mood. Having sex with Burke usually brought one on. Unlike most of the men in Tenpenny Towers, who at least acknowledged the valuable service she provided, Burke always appeared to enjoy treating her like the cheapest of cheap whores. On this occasion, he'd banged her in the shower, then dismissed her with another of the many put downs he employed to erode her self-esteem. But he would not succeed in humiliating her! She was a Tenpenny resident and entitled to respect. She would've liked to complain to Alistair, but it seemed Burke could do no wrong in his eyes. Well if the snarky bastard ever seriously fucked up and fell from his pedestal, she'd be ready to push his nose deep in the shit. He wasn't going to intimidate her like he did everyone else.

She felt the need to take her anger out on someone, and decided on Security Chief Gustavo. He'd been damnably slow in dealing with those ghouls who were scaring everyone. Why didn't he just take a party out and shoot them all? She would give him a piece of her mind, and show him a woman could have steel in her soul.

She dried her blonde locks with a towel, then brushed them thoroughly to remove the tangles. They still looked disappointingly frazzled. _Damn you Burke!_ After dressing herself in a fetchingly pink spring dress, she took the elevator down to the ground floor. The light muzak that could be heard everywhere in the hotel except the penthouse suites began, but the notes no longer impinged on her conscious mind.

Stepping through the elevator doors, her eyes were caught by the glitter of the magnificent twin chandeliers, which hung from the ceiling at a mid-point between the dual staircases leading to the second level of the lobby. Surprisingly both the gallery above and the pillared entrance hall below were empty of any residents or guards. Gustavo was as usual sitting at the security desk not far in front of her, but in a rather oddly slumped position, as though taking a nap. _This is quite outrageous! _Susan thought. Not only was the man skimping his tasks, he was actually sleeping on duty! She strode forward angrily and tapped him on the shoulder.

Gustavo slid sideways. The front of his forehead showed a gaping wound through which she could see his brains. She opened her mouth to scream but before any sound could issue, a strong hand clamped her lips, and she was pulled backwards onto a hard body. At the same time, a pistol was pressed to a spot just next to her right ear. She could tell it was a man holding her, because she could feel the prickle of his beard on her neck.

Softy he said, "I'd advise you not to try crying out again, Susan. Unless you want to remain forever silent."

Her head was tilted back so that the chandeliers swam in her vision. They looked so beautiful. Beautiful as life. When the man removed his hand from her mouth, she was shaking so much her teeth started to rattle.

"Now," he said in the same low but pleasant tone. "I have two simple questions to ask you. Where's Tenpenny? And where's Burke?"

* * *

Arta squinted to avoid the harsh noonday sun, tentatively gripping a rounded, granite boulder, her foot nearly slipping as she tried to lever herself up.

"Here."

From the brow of the hill above, Creel was extending an arm towards her. Gratefully she grasped his strong, roughened hand and was easily pulled up alongside him.

"Thanks." She smiled, a little shyly.

"No problem." There was warmth in his return smile and voice. "Always a pleasure to help the loveliest member of the tribe."

Arta blushed, self-consciously brushing the hair curling on her neck. She glanced at Jericho. His face was often set in a scowl anyway but she felt secretly pleased at the thought of his resentment. It would do him good to experience some rivalry. And it was flattering to feel that both of them could be competing for her attention and favours. In the midst of the serious and deadly business they were engaged in, surely she was allowed to have a little harmless fun?

They had reached a plateau at the highest point of the ridge. Boulders surrounded the rim, and from there it was possible to overlook a lower area of dirt and withered trees which formed a kind of dell between the rocks. Looking down, Arta reflected that whether because of Jericho's astute guidance or pure luck, they had as yet encountered no hostiles. She was about to turn to away, when Creel gripped her arm and pointed.

Two Raiders had entered the dell from below. The female had a partially shaved head, with pigtails, and carried a slung assault rifle; the male's hair was an untidy mass of spikes, and he had no visible weapon. He looked scarcely to have reached his mid-teens, while the woman was a year or two older. They chattered excitedly, not looking up at the observers behind the rocks.

Creel glanced at Jericho and raised his magnum suggestively, but the balding ex-Raider shook his head. While Arta watched curiously, the youth reached out to clasp his companion's hands, tugging her towards him. Giggling she at first pulled away, then allowed herself to be drawn close. They began to embrace and kiss passionately, their hands feeling for areas of exposed flesh.

_Most Wastelanders consider them bloodthirsty barbarians, _Arta thought. _But they have lives and loves too. And I can see some more advantages of those gaps in their armour._

Beside her Jericho showed an expression of disgust. "Things must have got slack since my time. Kids, eh? You'd think they'd clock this ain't a safe place for canoodling."

_Are they actually going to do 'it'? _Arta wondered. _They could literally be caught with their pants down. _As though reading her mind, the Raider woman was slipping down her spiked shorts, and then tugging at those of her younger lover, while suggestively rubbing herself between the thighs.

As she did so, Creel whispered hoarsely, "Oh fuck, take a look over there!"

At the far end of the dell, a huge bristling shape was clambering over the rocks around the edge. Its fur was midnight black, thickly covering four massive clawed limbs, and its roving eyes and rows of sharp, pointed teeth showed up whitely. Even from this distance a low, breathy growling could be heard, but the lovers, wrapped up with one another, seemed unaware.

_Sweet Jesus! _thought Arta_. This is the biggest, most savage looking bear I've ever seen, even in pictures!_

"Yao Guai!" hissed Jericho. "Arta shoot for the head!"

She was already squinting through her sniper scope. The mutant bear had slightly raised itself up, lifting its snout as though to sight or smell its prey. The next instant it was advancing rapidly but stealthily towards the Raiders.

Arta fired. A spurt of blood appeared close to the bear's right ear. It gave an enraged roar, and charged, all four of its paws flying off the ground as it propelled itself forward with great strides, covering the remaining distance to the couple in an instant. At almost the last moment the boy realised the danger, and with a yell thrust his companion away straight into the path of the onrushing creature.

The Yao Guai reacted with instinctive ferocity, its great jaws biting down to sever the woman's neck, cutting off her scream. The next second, razor sharp claws had sliced her limbs and torso apart.

The brief halt while it did so was time enough for the youth to leap clear, and for Jericho and Billy Creel to open up with a barrage of fire. The Yao Guai reeled back from the storm of assault rifle rounds and the heavy impact of the magnum shells. At the same time, Arta had its head in her rifle cross hairs again. She pulled the trigger, and this time the .308 round struck the bear squarely between the jaws. Blood spraying from its mouth, it rolled over and lay still.

Arta lowered the rifle and, with the battle over, was able to gasp with relief. "Thank god! I thought it would never die!"

Phlegmatically reloading his magnum, Creel commented: "Their hide's like the toughest armour and they've got skulls almost like concrete. Very often one bullet to the head ain't enough, even from a powerful rifle like yours."

The young Raider was looking up warily at his rescuers. Seeing this, Jericho held up his hand, thumb and middle finger touching to form a circle, forefinger raised. Apparently reassured, the Raider responded with the same gesture, and turned to examine the corpses. Arta noted with horror that the woman's mutilated head was still trapped between the creature's jaws, and with distaste that the youth was unconcernedly looting the assault rifle and other items from her body.

To Creel she said, "How can he do that so cold-bloodedly after they'd been making love? Not to mention that he used her as a human shield!"

He snorted. "These Raiders are like animals. He was probably banging some other slut not very long before. They have no proper human feelings and no morality. They all deserve stringing up."

Suddenly anxious, Arta asked, "And Jericho. Does he think like that?"

The deputy gave her a look. "He used to be one of them, didn't he?" Nodding towards the dell, he added, "Look at them now. Thick as thieves!"

Jericho had clambered down to the Raider, and a conversation started. The young man responded with enthusiasm, waving his arms excitedly.

Arta said, "I want to know what they're talking about. Let's go."

As they began to descend, Jericho shouted, "Hey, someone should stay up there to cover our backs!"

Arta ignored him. She took the measure of Jericho's new 'friend'. Like most Raiders, he was thin but muscular. His dark hair and pale green eyes gave him a strange, wild look; not unhandsome, although when he grinned at her, he showed several missing teeth.

She asked, "So what's the deal?"

The youth leered again, and Jericho answered for him. "This is Kral. He wants us to go to the clan outpost nearby."

"Why?"

Still showing his gap-toothed smile, Kral said excitedly: "You have to ask, clan sister? Don't you know who this is?" Raising his hands towards Jericho in a gesture of awe and respect, he continued. "Its Him. The Legend!"

"The Legend?"

"The legendary Raider, sister. The one who even the Brotherhood of Steel feared, who never lost a battle." He closed his eyes as if to aid his recall. "_And it is said, at our hour of need, he shall return to lead us again. And he shall bring the white handled sword as a sign._" Pointing at Jericho, he exclaimed triumphantly: "He's got the mother fucking sword right there!"

Arta looked at the Chinese sword Jericho had brought with him. Certainly part of the hilt of _White Mist _was formed from a strange cloudy substance. Could it be … _pearl, t_he excretion of an extinct mollusc? She folded her arms. "Well, well."

Jericho gave a faintly embarrassed smile. "What can I say, kid? I _am _Legend."

The moment shared between them was interrupted by Creel suddenly shouting: "Guai! Jericho watch out!"

Arta looked up, and was horrified to see another of the vicious mutant bears crouched on the rocks above, poised to spring. The creature gave a snarl, and leapt at Jericho, its black form terrifyingly huge, a descending shadow outlined against the sky.

Jericho was already rolling aside, immediately regaining his feet to let off a burst of fire in the Yao Guai's direction. The creature landed on all fours, then turned towards Arta with frightening speed. She had remained frozen but now instinctively drew her new SMG, bracing herself to control the recoil as the automatic pumped ten millimetre rounds into the bear's thick hide They seemed to have little effect, and the Yao Guai reared up, towering over her, its claws ready to shred her to pieces.

She had only time to think, _Oh shit!_

And then Billy Creel stepped in front of her, his magnum firing steadily at the beast's head. It staggered, but a great paw slashed out. Creel screamed.

By now multiple streams of bullets were pouring into the Yao Guai from all directions, as Jericho, Arta and Kral focused the fire of their automatic weapons. The concentration and volume of shots was too much for even the mutant bear to withstand, and with a final defiant roar it fell dead.

But Billy Creel had not been firing. While his right hand still gripped the magnum, the arm had been literally ripped off at the shoulder, and lay on the ground. Creel himself was prone and white-faced, twisting and panting while futilely trying to staunch the arterial blood spraying from his shoulder joint.

"Billy!" Arta gave a cry and ran to his side. She knew she ought to put pressure on the wound, but where exactly, and how could such a torrent of blood be stemmed? Even a stimpak couldn't perform miracles. She reached for one nonetheless.

Staring at her, Kral asked, "What's she doing man? This poor fucker's finished."

Arta paused, as between violent pants, Creel essayed to speak. "M … Maggie … please … look …af …"

Tears brimmed in her eyes. Taking the only hand remaining to him, she squeezed it, and said, "I will try, I promise."

Understanding gleamed in Billy's single eye. He laid back his head, the hyperventilation subsiding into shallow breaths. His lips seemed touched by a faint smile. Arta leaned forward to check his breathing and search for a pulse. Nothing. She gave a wail, and laid her head on his chest, weeping.

Behind her she heard Kral say, "What the fuck …?"

She was hauled violently to her feet, and twisted to face Jericho. Drawing back his hand, he slapped her full in the face.

"Quit blubbing like a miserable towny! You're a fucking disgrace to the tribe!" He reached down, wrenching the magnum from Creel's cold fingers. "You want something to remember him by? Take this, you stupid whining bitch!"

She stared at him astonished, holding her cheek. Then, with a look of hatred, she spat in his face and turned to rush away. He was after her on the instant, grabbing hold of her, as she struggled and fought.

"Arta, Arta, listen to me!" She sunk her teeth into his hand. "Aargh!" He wrenched himself free, and continued to hold her, while muttering urgently under his breath. "Listen to me, for fuck's sake. You're getting damn close to blowing our cover. Raiders don't cry, even at the death of a friend. Not in front of other Raiders anyhow."

She replied in the same low but angry tone. "What does it matter what some crummy kid psycho thinks? Billy was worth a thousand of scum like that. And … you _hit_ me."

"You didn't give me a helluva a lot of choice. Would you rather I iced a kid than smack your face? And it matters because he can hook us up with the rest of the clan. We can pass through their turf, maybe even get some back up."

"Fuck you, Mr Legend!"

"You think I care about that? I don't give a shit, unless it helps us. C'mon, pull yourself together. This ain't gonna bring Billy back to life."

From some distance away, Kral shouted, "You two finished yet? We haven't got far to go." Admiringly he continued. "Did you see the way he dodged that Guai? The Legend will never die!

* * *

_Pure white, _Burke thought. _There's something about the whiteness of a bath that sets it apart. _A pristine quality amidst the dirt, squalor and disease of the Wasteland. Especially when filled with water of a purity that many were dying for lack of. Much of it would be recycled, but even the liquid he carelessly allowed to slosh onto the floor could preserve a water beggar or two for a period of days. More than anything else in Tenpenny Towers, it represented the privilege he had earned, the status that set him above the common mass of humanity.

His educated mind sought for another metaphor. White also represented the purging the world must undergo before it could attain the next level of civilisation: the spreading of a clean sheet, the turning of a new blank page. When Megaton finally perished in white light, the purifying fires would burn away the garbage of human failure.

Inevitably he thought of Arta. Her emergence from the Vault was the perfect symbol of the world reborn, as a child from the womb is fresh and untainted. It should have been her destiny to herald a new age. It could _still _be her destiny, he corrected himself. Like Mei Wong, her very innocence had a power which could be channelled in the right hands. She had swiftly and unhesitatingly attempted to kill him in the pursuit of what she believed to be right. _How close she had come to succeeding! _He recalled the moment with a kind of ecstasy. Such magnificent potential must not be wasted. The lost child was in need of his guidance, and it must be given soon before those fools from Megaton corrupted the virgin purity of her mind; so much more important than mere physical chastity.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. Sinking deeper into the warm bath water, and readjusting his hat to keep it dry, he snapped, "Who is it?"

There was hesitation outside before the reply. "It's me, Susan."

"Go away, Susan." He allowed the full contempt he felt for her to enter his voice. "Your services aren't required any further today."

He expected the insolent trollop to throw a tantrum in response, and was surprised when she continued, "I've an important message from Alistair. He wants to know where the detonator is."

Burke was astonished. Trusting Susan with this task, let alone such privileged information was a surprising lapse on Tenpenny's part. Was he becoming senile, as Burke had suspected?

Abruptly he said, "You'd better come in, Susan. The door is unlocked."

"But the …"

"_Come in."_

The door swung inward. Through the hot steam, Burke could see Susan's face was pale and sweating, and she appeared to be trembling. Something was badly wrong. Whatever disagreeable qualities she possessed, she wasn't easily frightened. As a man accustomed to being feared, he was sure of that.

Before he could speculate further, something flashed behind Susan's neck, striking it with a dull thud, and she collapsed to the floor, sprawling on the wet tiles, the water beginning to soak through the hem of her short dress like a tide creeping over a pink shoreline. When he saw who had stepped into the room behind her, and the silenced muzzle of the ten-millimetre pistol, Burke realised he was once again close to death. He had always found it charged his senses to an acute level that was quite exhilarating.

He said, "It's been a while, Sam."

"Burke." The soft, deceptively courteous tone was unchanged, along with the predatory smile, the sunglasses and the powerful sniper rifle. But Burke could see that the passing of years had left their mark on Sam Walsh. His skin was burnt the deep brown of one who had spent much time in the badlands of the Wastes. His dust-flecked clothes and equipment showed signs of constant use and repair, and his once well-groomed hair was sun-bleached and swept back in a style that, like the rest of his appearance, had almost the air of the hobo.

Burke was not deceived. Walsh was and would always remain a professional. However it was clear that, like so many others, he had been forced into a continuous battle for survival in a harsh environment.

Knowing that Walsh would be aware of the contrast, he said, "You look like you've spent too long on the outside, Sam."

"And you look like you've spent too long on the _inside._" Walsh stroked his beard calculatingly.

Burke acknowledged the riposte. "Perhaps. But the man of sense follows the money. Maybe its time to come home, Sam. You're wasted running fools errands for a bunch of cheap crooks."

The hit man showed no sign of irritation. "Those crooks pay me very well."

"They may do so. But what are caps without the environment to spend them in? A secure base to rest and recuperate. A statement of intent. All this … " Burke made a lordly gesture "Tenpenny provides."

"Tenpenny is dead." Walsh spoke without inflection. "And your base …" he waved his hand in mocking imitation of Burke "… has proved less than secure."

Burke tried not to show any reaction to this partly dismaying news. _I suppose it's an ill wind. _Carefully he said, "Perhaps some things are for the best. Nevertheless …" with a flash of anger difficult to suppress "he was once a man of vision and genius."

"With respect to that, the past tense is appropriate," Walsh commented dryly. "And also for a number of his security staff and residents who had the misfortune to cross my path."

"Then let us speak of the future." Burke adopted the best business-like air that his somewhat undignified situation allowed. "I'm now in a position to make you a very generous offer."

Walsh gave his head the slightest of shakes. "I've already received such an offer. As a fellow professional, you'll appreciate I must honour my contract." Abruptly he asked, "Where is the detonator for the fusion pulse charge?"

"Always so direct, Sam."

"Like yourself, I find it saves much time."

"Very well. It's securely locked in a concealed safe. I have the key here." Burke indicated his hat. "I recall that locks weren't your strong point."

"One can always improve with sufficient practice. Please remain where you are, and throw me the key."

"You appear to have me at a disadvantage." Burke raised his hand to brush against his hat, and as he did so he turned his head slightly towards his left, and then again to the right. Each time there was the faintest sound, a _pffff _of air expelled.

Walsh gave a grunt, then looked in puzzlement at the hand holding his gun, and then again at his left empty hand, his face twitching convulsively.

Genuine emotion in his voice for the first time, he grated, "What have you done to me?"

Burke was already climbing from the bath, looking unconcerned. He reached for an elegant kimono-style dressing gown, and shrugged it on.

He said, "I've paralysed both your arms with darts coated with radscorpion venom. As much as your brain tries to send messages to your finger to pull the trigger, the drug completely blocks them." He casually tied the sash. "I'd suggest standing very still, as that will slow the progress of the poison to the rest of your body."

Walsh gave a growl deep in his throat, but he remained frozen in place like a statue.

Conversationally, Burke continued, "As the venom spreads, it will begin to shut down internal organs with predictably fatal consequences. It may be that death will eventually come with a feeling of peace and tranquillity." Walsh moaned sharply, and Burke gave a wolfish grin. "Unfortunately before that you will experience the agonies of the damned. There is in fact an antidote which I conveniently have nearby. It needs to be applied soon however."

Walsh's face was now twisting in pain

"And so …" Burke carefully removed the pistol from the mercenary's rigid hand, "… let us begin our discussion anew."

* * *

"There she is, our watch tower in the Wastes."

Arta, Jericho and Kral crouched at the top of a high cliff so steep as to be almost sheer. The Raider outpost was laid out below them like a model town, centred on a two-storey half-ruined building. Slightly further away a gully was crossed by a low bridge, and this roadway continued to the northwest towards the remains of the flyover where the Arefu settlement was located.

Much activity could be seen below, as the Raiders patrolled the ruin and bridge sporting a miscellany of weapons, including a flame thrower. Two guards with rifles were surveying the surrounding area from the top of the ruin. From nearby came the barking of a dog.

Kral stood up to wave, giving the signal he had earlier exchanged with Jericho. There was a response from one of the guards atop the building.

Turning towards them, Kral executed a half bow. "Welcome to _Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast_."

_It's a little early for bed, _Arta thought_. I wonder what's for breakfast?_

_

* * *

_

*_Father, if it be possible … _Jericho would probably not know that, according to the New Testament, these were the words Jesus spoke in the Garden of Gethsemane, not long before being crucified.

Christmas plus some new complications in the plot have spelt quite a long break between chapters. Now that I'm once again sure of the immediate direction of the story, things should hopefully go quicker. I know I say this nearly every time!*


	21. Breakfast at Kaelyn's

Ch 21 Breakfast at Kaelyn's

"The White Sword! The White Sword has come back!"

Of the strange events that had occurred since the metal door of Vault 101 had closed on Arta for the second time, this was one of the strangest in which she was a direct participant. Walking by Jericho's side, as savage warriors crowded round to form an honour guard, made her feel as though she were bringing to life a legendary tale of Grognak the Barbarian. With their bizarrely styled and colourful hair, their revealing and threatening assortment of armour and body decoration, and their bristling variety of weapons from simple cudgels to powerful rifles, the shouting and cheering Raiders seemed to have stepped right out of the pages of her favourite comic. And Jericho had shown an unexpected flare for showmanship, milking the moment by drawing _White Mist_ and holding it dramatically aloft for all to see, looking every inch the hero returning to claim his own. _It's not the first time that I've seen him in a completely different light, _Arta thought, looking round at the jubilant throng gathered to greet their former leader. She could feel the excitement even though the proximity of the jostling, sweating bodies and the loud barking of the Raider guard dogs were somewhat intimidating. _There ought to be wild music and beating drums._

While the double-storied building known as _Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast_ was the centre of the Raider outpost, commanding a view of the strategic bridge and highway, the Wasteland barbarians had also constructed some crude shelters of corrugated iron, wood or canvas to house themselves in whatever they considered comfort. As the outlandish procession approached, a tall woman emerged from one these dwellings and strode to the top of the ramp leading to the upper story of the former hostelry. Her skin was a dark tan, her cheekbones high and proud, her nose long and well shaped, her lips wide and sensual. She wore a long corselet of chain rings, a type of armour that Arta was beginning to think a mark of rank amongst the Raiders, and a silver fillet confined the full richness of her blonde coloured hair, which stuck up like ostrich plumes. Her eyes, rimmed with black liner, had a cat-like quality, as she looked arrogantly down on them.

Jericho paused at the foot of the ramp, sheathing his sword, and the Raiders fell silent as he and the woman confronted one another. Eventually she spoke first in a high-pitched tone, pronouncing each of her words clearly and with emphasis.

"_War Chief _Jericho?"

"Mama Lalita." Jericho sounded relaxed, but to Arta the tension between them was like a cable stretched between opposite turning windlasses.

"It's High Lieutenant Lalita now. I command this outpost. The White Sword has returned as I foresaw."

Jericho nodded. "Your wisdom was always a support to me in time of need." Indicating Arta, he added, "And I bring new blood for the tribe."

_She must've been in her mid-thirties when Jericho left, _Arta thought. _She looks well into her forties now. I wonder why they didn't make her War Chief if she's supposed to be that wise? She's certainly much older than Trinny._

Lalita gave Arta a look half amused, half contemptuous. "The tribe will have need of all its strength. Let the New One be received, as is the Way. Mara, Yoko, see to it." To Jericho she said, "Come within and we will hold congress." Then sharply, "And the rest of you can get back to your posts!"

The formalities seemed over. Lalita beckoned Jericho towards her shelter. Arta moved to follow. Lalita's eyes widened. Drawing a long combat knife, she asked in her high, almost musical tones, "And may I ask where you're going? Are you a leader here?"

"I … eh …" Arta was caught off guard.

Jericho said quickly, "She don't know our ways yet, Mama."

"Then she gotta learn respect, Jericho." Bringing the knife up close to Arta's throat, "I said, are you a leader here?"

"N, no," Arta stammered.

"Well, this congress is for leaders only. Remember that girl, or next time I'll cut something off to remind you. Now move your arse."

Arta looked appealingly at Jericho.

"Sorry but you're gonna havta stay with the others." Seeing Arta's downcast look, he added in a lower tone, "Remember you're a Raider. And … just try to go with the flow, okay?"

Feeling abandoned, Arta watched resentfully as Jericho and Lalita disappeared inside the jerrybuilt structure. She started as a smooth hand slid over her bare shoulder, rubbing it sensually.

"So what's your name, babykins?"

Arta turned to see two female Raiders eying her with undisguised lust. The one who had spoken and was massaging her, continued in sultry tones: "I'm Mara and this is Yoko. We're here to … welcome you to the tribe."

Mara was taller and more muscular, her head shaven apart from two devil-like spikes of dark hair, Yoko more diminutive, with delicate Asiatic features and swept across curls. Though covered with the usual Wasteland layer of grime, their flesh had the smoothness of youth, breasts and buttocks firm, limbs well formed and strong. The dirt couldn't disguise their somewhat debauched beauty.

Nervously Arta gave her name. Yoko took her hand, pulling her towards another of the hovels.

"C'mon Arta. Let's not waste any time getting to know each other."

Feeling helpless to resist, Arta allowed herself to be led inside. The place was as disgustingly dirty as she'd imagined: the main furniture a filthy mattress and a small table upon which were various kinds of medical syringes and a polished human skull. Almost immediately, Yoko wrapped one arm around her neck, and began to kiss her, meanwhile loosening her upper armour to reveal her left breast. Uncomfortably aware of Mara's presence right behind her, Arta tried to relax, shutting her eyes as she felt Yoko begin to trail kisses down her neck towards her exposed bosom. Then her eyes flew open again, and she was unable to suppress a shriek, as Mara bit hard into her bare right shoulder.

"Did you enjoy my kiss?" the tall Raider whispered into her ear. She felt Mara begin to suck on the lobe, while Yoko was giving the same attention to her nipple, causing it to harden and swell.

_Is this what Jericho meant by 'going with the flow'? _Arta would have preferred a less passive role, but couldn't help surrendering herself to the pleasurable feelings, parting her lips to allow Mara to probe her mouth deeply with her tongue. The two Raiders began to divest themselves of the remainder of their clothing.

"How about a little psycho?" Mara reached for a syringe from the table. "It always makes me feel such a bad, bad girl."

"I'm already a bad, bad girl," Arta said hastily. She was uncertain as to what effect the drug might have, and hoped the Raiders wouldn't insist.

Mara shrugged. "Suit yourself." She plunged the needle into her own arm and gave a sigh. "There's little to go round until we hit the next caravan."

Yoko was meanwhile nuzzling Arta's navel, while tugging down her pants. Arta gave a moan as she felt the smaller Raider bury her face between her thighs, employing her tongue delicately. _They've adopted two different roles, _she thought. _Yoko is the 'nice' one and Mara … _she became aware that the more heavily built Raider was strapping something around her waist.

_Oh god, that looks … so big … and where is she planning to put it?_

Mara had sidled up behind Arta, and ignoring her squeal of protest, pressed herself close.

"What … you don't like it _rough_?" she giggled. "Well that's too bad!"

* * *

"You can still show these kids a trick of two, Mama," Jericho lay back onto the well-sprung mattress, and gave a sigh. Examining Lalita's naked form beside him, he had to admit she'd kept herself fit for her age. _The leader's privilege of copious supplies of Radaway must've helped._

"As can you. And you've developed a smoother tongue in your head. Does that come of the soft city life?" Lalita's tone was still a purr of satisfaction, but Jericho wasn't expecting it to last.

"Nar, not when you're always surrounded by arseholes."

"Oh yeah? Well then maybe it was the soft city women. Like that one you brought with you."

_Nothing much gets past Mama. _He said dryly, "You noticed."

"I should be able to spot 'em a mile off at my age. Even before she opened her mouth, I could tell she was no Raider. Nor likely to become one either. So …" Jericho sensed the purr beginning to change to a growl "what's she doing here then? Or maybe I should ask, what are _you _here for?"

"I already told you."

"You want _our _help? That's not the way it works, Jericho. We got enough problems of our own. Between the Outcasts, the mutant wildlife and Bethesda clan, our backs are to the wall most of the time these days."

He gave a short laugh. "Oh, you mean you want your Legend to save your sorry arses?"

"Fuck that! I was the one who suggested it in the first place. As an explanation for your ... sudden disappearance. Better for morale that way. But we didn't expect you to actually come back, of course."

"Well, ain't I an inconsiderate bastard."

"You've said it. And the damn story's taken on a life of it's own. Even the youngest Raider's heard it. So you've left us with very little room for maneuver."

"I see. The Legend has to die … or disappear again."

"That's about the size of it. The only alternative to either of those is a clan war. And I doubt we can afford that."

"Brother against brother, eh? Or sister." Jericho rubbed his beard meditatively. In a lowered voice, he asked, "What's she like now?"

Lalita rolled onto her stomach, began lighting up a cigarette. "Older. Smarter. I won't say wiser. Dyes her hair purple these days. Other than that, she's just like always. Legend or not, part of the tribe will follow her. And she's not gonna want to share."

"Hmm, that sounds familiar." He took the cigarette from her, and inhaled, half-closing his eyes in contemplation. After exhaling, he said, "And which side would you choose if it came to that?"

Lalita gave a slow smile. "You know me, Jericho. I always pick the winning side." He cocked an eyebrow, and she continued. "Tell me its gonna be like the old days, and I'll march under your banner to hell and back. But there ain't gonna be any room for your _moral dilemmas_. Softness ain't getting you any followers or winning you any battles. It certainly ain't getting you any help."

"No, I see that now. Well, I guess I'm gonna havta think about it, aren't I?"

"So long as you don't take too long. You got till sunrise tomorrow."

* * *

When Jericho entered the shelter, Mara and Yoko had already left, and Arta was putting on her underwear. Nursing her bites and bruises, she reflected that, despite the rough treatment, the memories evoked weren't unpleasant ones._ Perhaps I find women more attractive. Unless I was a Raider in a former life._ She regarded Jericho thoughtfully. _I may've enjoyed my time with Mei Wong or Nova, but there's something deeper between us. Nothing to compare with Amata, true …_

Jericho's eyes and tone were faintly mocking, as he asked, "So how're we enjoying our time as a Raider?"

"You know, I really can't decide." She shot him a sharp glance. "Not enough to forget what happened to Billy though."

He winced. "That's the Wastes. Someone's next to you one moment, then they're dead. It's fucked up, but you've gotta accept it happens."

"Yeah, along with a few other things. Like not knowing from one moment to the next who you or your partner are sleeping with." Sarcastically: "So how was your time with Big Mama? She's certainly closer to you in age. Maybe I can adopt the pair of you as my new mother and father."

"Listen Arta." He sounded apologetic. "This … this is a Raider thing. Most of 'em don't care about much except having a good time … after their fashion. Sex is something … like saying hello." With a hint of recrimination, he added, "You've discovered that already, ain't ya?"

_Don't try to pretend I'm a hypocrite! You started all this! _Angrily she retorted, "Yeah, and I suppose you're used to casual sex in the same way you accept casual violence. Was that what freaked out Jenny Stahl, I wonder?"

In a suddenly quiet voice, he asked, "What are you talking about?"

"She was afraid that you were going to rape her, wasn't she?" Arta decided it was time to get Jericho to admit to the truth, no matter what.

"Did she say that?"

"She gave some pretty strong hints. And then there was Moriarty's smutty little record saying that you'd tried but you couldn't get it up."

"What the fuck …?" Jericho was angry too now. "So you believe that lying old bastard, do you?"

"Why would he put lies on a terminal he made damn sure nobody else had access to?" Raising her eyes accusingly, she asked, "Well, is it true? Did you?"

"I tell you, I didn't try to rape her!" Jericho spoke so vehemently that Arta was temporarily silenced. He continued, in calmer tones. "If trying to give her what I thought she wanted was wrong, then I was wrong. But if anyone's lying then it's her. Lying to herself."

Arta finally found her voice. "Oh that's the oldest excuse in the book, isn't it? She wanted it … really. I've heard it all before!"

"You can call me a fucking liar if you want." Jericho spoke now with dignity. "And I can't be certain, I guess. But if I've learned anything in all my time about women … and it ain't easy, I'm telling ya … then I know when one's got it real bad." He held out his hands in a gesture of appeal. "Put yourself in her shoes. She's got this image of herself as a respectable householder, as prim and proper as you like. Then she falls for just about the most disreputable, sleazy son of a bitch in Megaton. On the one hand, she's gotta have it, and on the other she's afraid of scandal and ridicule. So what does she do? She secretly invites me round to her place."

"Wait." Arta began to think she might be mistaken after all. "She _invited _you_?"_

"Oh, yeah. And you should've seen her face when she did it; it was that fucking red. Still it might've all gone tickety boo, except you know me, I don't accept any bullshit. So when I was there, I made damn sure she knew I was onto her game. I guess it was too much for her pride. Or maybe she thought I was gonna boast about my conquest and let the whole town know. Anyhow just as we were about to get down to it, she totally freaked and started screaming and hitting me. Of course I tried to stop her crapping her pants, told her not to be such a hypocrite and let her true feelings out. But she wasn't having any of it. And that was that. I reckon she's convinced her family and maybe herself it happened completely different. How that cunt Moriarty got to hear about it, shit only knows. But he must've heard the bull crap version, and I'm telling you the truth, as near as dammit."

Arta was sure by now that Jericho believed what he was telling her. Yet could it be the _whole _truth?

She said, "You've told me a lot about _her _feelings. But what about yours?"

"Well I … " Jericho had that uncomfortable look Arta was getting used to.

"You know …" she said, " … I believe you've related the story as you saw it. But you've left one thing out. I think you wanted her as much as she wanted you. And maybe you still do. So when she suddenly turned round and rejected you, it stung real bad. I bet it was hard to contain that frustration; you must've come pretty close to trying to take her whatever she was saying. So all that sexual tension's been simmering for years, and explains why you treat each other like unexploded bombs."

"You think so much bullshit." But Jericho's voice held no conviction.

"Maybe." She decided to let him stew over what she really thought. "Look, I'm pooped. I need to rest a few hours."

"That ain't surprising. It's bin quite a day. Still we'd better not put both our heads down at once."

"How come? Surely no one's gonna stab the Legend in his sleep."

"I wouldn't bet my arse on that. Sometimes people prefer their legends to remain … legendary. And if they don't, there's always the solution of slitting their throats."

"I take it the current leadership isn't exactly delighted by your return?"

"No. Not when they might have a civil war on their hands. At any rate, we can forget about them giving us any help."

"Did you ever seriously expect them to do that? Maybe we should leave right now."

"I think we'll be okay for tonight, if we're careful. You look like you need some kip for sure." He hesitated. "That shit you said about … keeping things professional. Was that because of what you thought about me and Jenny?"

She nodded.

"So if you believe me, does that mean that we can …"

"I suppose so."

"I mean if you want to sleep first …"

"No, its okay, I'm not _that _tired." She moved towards him sinuously. "We might as well live a little while we're still able, don't you think?"

* * *

Lalita found them naked and twined together, arms across one another and faces close, breathing peacefully, their eyes shut. She moved silently and with care until she was behind them, then slowly drew her combat knife. She stood for a while looking down, running her finger along the sharp edge.

A smile touched her lips, broadening to a grin. "Ain't we a pair, Jericho?" she said softly. "Two of a kind." She slid the weapon back into its sheath, and stole away.

Jericho carefully opened one eye, verifying that she had in fact left the shelter. He gave a low chuckle. "That we are, Mama. That we are."

* * *

The morning sun touched the topmost broken wall of _Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast_, bringing with it the faintest hint of dew. The Raider camp presented a hive of activity: weapons were readied, boxes of ammunition laid out, snacks munched on.

Kral passed Arta and Jericho, grinning widely enough to show the gaps in his teeth. "We got the word," he said, sliding the bolt of his assault rifle. "A caravan's on its way in. Time to rock." He nodded towards the upper floor of the main building where Lalita stood checking over the long tubular shape of a rocket launcher. "And we got a little surprise for them."

They walked up the ramp to join the Raider leader. Finishing her task, and experimentally hefting the weapon, she asked Jericho, "Come to join the party?"

"Maybe. What happened with the tribute?"

"We ain't got it recently. Could be they're trying different routes. We figure they're in cahoots with the Outcasts. Those renegade arseholes want the highways clear for their own purposes. Anyhow …" she clenched a fist and rapped on the launcher casing. "If they don't show any sign of paying, we're gonna blow them away."

Arta sniffed the morning air. There was something in the atmosphere, in the way people moved, in the low conversations. _I've read about it, but never experienced it myself. That feeling before battle. _She watched Mara exchange a curt low five with Yoko, before strapping on the heavy bulk of a flamer. The smaller Raider set off towards the bridge, carrying a hunting rifle. Nearby Kral was engaged in rough play with one of the guard dogs, teasing it with a Salisbury steak. _"Hey Wolfie, you're gonna get an arm and a leg to chew on soon!"_

Lalita touched Jericho on the shoulder. "Look. Here they come. From Arefu. Right on schedule."

From behind an embankment next to the river came a line of moving shapes, blurry with distance. Arta could make out a pack brahmin, along with five human size figures, three of them somewhat squat.

Lalita produced a battered telescope, trained it on the distant column, then passed it to Jericho. He grunted.

"_Outcasts._ The caravan's got an escort of 'em. And that's a Gatling laser or I've never seen one." He glanced at the Raider leader. "Someone's gonna get hurt today."

"It'll be them then." Lalita picked up the launcher. "This'll take down the Tin Can with the big gun at least." Tauntingly she added, "You don't like the odds, you don't have to join us."

Arta snatched the ocular device from Jericho, and brought it up to her eye. The shapes were suddenly enlarged as though nearby. Closest to the pack animal was a lean man with a grey trader cap, accompanied by a leather clad female mercenary. Arta shifted the focus. Directly in front of them, a disciplined formation of three figures moved in the strange lumbering gait required by wearers of power armour. They were equipped in similar fashion to knights of the Brotherhood of Steel. However their metal suits were a dull, blackish hue rather than light grey, and bore the emblem of a red shield on the shoulder plates. This, combined with the masking effect of their bio-helmets, gave them an aspect of menace.

She muttered to Jericho, "Can I talk to you please?"

Lalita spared her a mocking look. "Has the little girl got cold feet already? Please take her somewhere out the way and hold her hand."

They moved far enough down the ramp to be out of earshot. Arta was still bristling from the insult.

She said in a low and furious voice, "There's no way we're helping these murdering scum to ambush a caravan."

Jericho said warningly, "Don't you reckon it's a bit late to be pulling out? Whatever Mama just said, if we walk away, we may get a rocket up our arses. She might figure we're swapping sides."

"That's exactly what we're doing. But we're not going anywhere."

"You gotta be kidding me!"

Urgently Arta continued, "Look, there's only Lalita and a sniper up top. If we take them down fast and silent, the others might not even notice straight away. Then we start picking the rest off from the cover of the high ground. By the time they're onto us, we'll get support from the caravan, and they'll be caught between two fires."

Jericho said, "That's a great plan in theory, but we're gonna have to strike before Lalita fires that launcher or our support may never arrive. And in that case it might be a while coming."

"What kind of Legend did you say you were? A legendary radroach? Or are you so attached to your old friends? We'll just have to hold them off until then, won't we?

Arta must have hit a sensitive spot, because Jericho immediately growled: "Right. Let's do it. And seeing as you're in such an arse-kicking mood, you can take out Mama yourself. No need to waste any ammo. Let's see how you can handle a knife."

_He wants me to cut her throat! He's testing me again. I can't back down now._

Lalita didn't turn as Arta took up a position alongside her. "Back already?" She continued to track the approaching soldiery, now barely two hundred yards from the end of the bridge. "Go time is imminent. Raising her voice, she shouted. "Everyone ready! On my mark. Five, four …"

_Can I bring myself to kill someone this close up and personal? I'm about to find out._

"… three, two …" The sniper raised his rifle, and behind him Jericho drew his sword.

_This is it!_

"… one, fire!"

Arta snaked an arm around Lalita's throat, and drew the knife she'd bought from the hunter across it. She had her eyes closed.

Lalita gave a gasp and Arta felt the warmth of the blood on her hand. Her immediate thought was exaltation that she had done the deed. _Who are you calling a little girl now, bitch!_ Disgust was swift on its heels but there was no time for it. In her dying convulsion, Lalita had pressed the trigger, and with a whoosh of exhaust gases, the missile exited the launch tube and began to accelerate towards the target, leaving a long trail of smoke. But its aim must have been fractionally diverted, because it exploded in a flare of orange several yards to the left of the group of Outcasts. Power armour made lying flat impossible, so they could only crouch down to avoid the blast and flying shrapnel.

All around the other Raiders were opening fire on the Outcasts except for the sniper Jericho had despatched with his sword. He was rapidly descending the ramp towards Kral, who had just unleashed the dogs and was readying his assault rifle, seemingly unaware of the approaching peril.

Arta let Lalita fall, barely sparing a glance at the bright red band of blood around her neck. She picked up her sniper rifle, focusing on the next closest opponent, Mara with her flamethrower. Even as she did so, the tall Raider woman turned, perhaps wondering why no supporting fire was coming from the building. She gave a cry of rage and began running towards Arta's position.

Nearby a dog growled, and Kral swivelled, just in time for Jericho to run him through. The youth's eyes bulged, looking down in astonishment at the legendary sword piercing his bowels.

Confronted by a target unexpectedly moving, Arta decided to try a percentage shot. As Mara turned the nozzle of the flame unit upwards, a .308 bullet pierced the bulky tank strapped to her back, and she gave a horrible scream as fire enveloped her.

With the immediate threats in the vicinity dealt with, Arta turned her attention to the Raiders on the bridge. Through the crosshairs of her scope, she could see a head above the parapet, wearing what seemed to be a fire helmet with a smoke mask. A pull of the trigger, and the head disappeared. She lowered the rifle, but before she could readjust her aim, something soft but heavy struck her hard from behind, almost pitching her out of one the ruined windows. She sprawled on the ground, struggling as though in a nightmare to keep the huge teeth of the foul-breathed guard dog away from her, while trying to draw her submachine gun. For long moments she could do nothing but fend it off, while it snarled and bit her arm. Then suddenly it yelped and went limp. Jericho stood above her, his sword bloody. He extended a hand to pull her up.

The combat was as good as over. Stabbing rods of red fire were flashing from the Outcast's lasers to bring down the last of the Raiders.

"Thank goodness that's finished with." Wincing at the bites on her arm, but deciding she'd tough out the pain, Arta staggered over to a westward facing window, and waved. "Hey, you over there!"

There was an instant's pause, followed by a buzzing all around her and a ghastly red light. Then Jericho grabbed her and pulled her flat to the floor.

"For fuck's sake, keep down! Are you hurt? Did they hit you?"

"I … I don't think so … oh god, my arm!"

Part of her long left armoured glove had been burnt away near the elbow. There was a horrible smell like cooked meat.

"I … can't feel anything."

"That sometimes happens with third degree burns. A laser can easily destroy the nerves in the area it hits. Don't worry; stimpaks are great for this sort of thing. You'll be fine if we can persuade those smucks to stop shooting."

"They just saw another Raider, didn't they? That would've been such a fucking stupid way to die."

"It still might be. We need to do something before they start trying to flank us. Wait a minute. Did you bring your Vault suit?"

"Yeah it's in my pack."

"Get it out quick. I've got an idea."

* * *

At close quarters the Outcasts' black armour showed tints of rust red, perhaps a sign of constant exposure to the elements.

"We saw your signal," their leader said. "Quite ingenious … for Wastelanders."

"Yeah, we're clever like that," Jericho said caustically. "And there's no need to thank us for saving your arses or to apologise for shooting us by accident."

The electronic baffle of her helmet couldn't disguise the leader's irritation. "We shot someone dressed as a Raider, and your help was neither asked for or needed."

The three victorious groups had joined at the head of the bridge. While the caravan and its guard were completely unscathed, one of the Outcasts was receiving medical attention for shrapnel wounds. Jericho carried some bite marks but had loftily refused treatment for 'itty-bitty scratches'. And Arta's arm was already regaining sensation from a healing injection. She wasn't however feeling well disposed towards those who had inflicted the injury, and their highhanded attitude didn't improve her mood.

"I'd question that …" she began with heat. "If that missile had struck a little closer …"

The lean man with the peaked cap intervened diplomatically. "I at least offer you my gratitude," he said. "I am Crow, a trader in vestments of protection. And may I say you bear the look of one who is haunted."

"That is so true!" Arta was surprised and relieved to at last meet someone who seemed to understand how she felt. "You see, after leaving the Vault, I found that my father had lied to me about almost everything and then …"

The trader looked confused. "Your pardon," he said. "I was merely about to point out that in this harsh, uncertain world there's nothing so reassuring as a mantle of metal or mesh. My wares can rescue you from the cruel claws of death itself."

"Oh!" Arta felt crushed with disappointment.

"It's what's known as sales patter, Arta," Jericho explained. To Crow he said, "We don't need any amateur psychology or pseudo-spiritual bullshit but we might be in the market for some combat armour." Then, waving at the surrounding area and its corpses. "And we'll have some loot to trade back."

Crow favoured Jericho with a keen look. Mildly he said, "In the world of the spirit we find harmonious balance. Ideally this should be reflected in earthly reality. Thus a fifty-fifty division of the spoils would be desirable."

"What?" Jericho exclaimed. "I don't remember you or that bimbo taking anyone down!"

The mercenary bristled, and Crow raised a hand in protest. The Outcast Leader interrupted.

"I believe 'that bimbo' managed to kill a Raider dog. So she's not just there to look pretty or keep him warm of nights."

"Step a little closer and I'll give you something warm up your arse, you stuck up bitch!" the mercenary growled. Crow made a gesture of placation.

"Ladies, please! The spirits who hear our thoughts are disturbed."

"Fuck the spirits!" Jericho regarded the Outcast Leader sceptically. "I suppose you Tin Cans want your share as well."

"Not in the least." Her voice was full of contempt. "Unless this bunch of knuckle draggers happened to have any usable tech, which I doubt, we'll leave their garbage for the Wildlife to scavenge."

Arta asked puzzled, "_Wildlife?_"

"She means the rest of us, Arta." Jericho looked sour and spat. "Not one of the mighty Brotherhood of Steel." He tapped his assault rifle and glared at the leader. "Garbage, you say? I'd take this before most of the fancy toys you like to play with."

Arta protested, "But you're Outcasts yourselves. From the Brotherhood."

The leader declared forcefully: "We _are _the Brotherhood as it should be. Elder Lyons has diverted the fools who choose to remain with him from our true goal: to revive pre-war technology and culture. Instead he's gone chasing his supermutant White Whale. We call ourselves Outcasts out of irony: a big 'fuck you' to the old man." Softening her tone with an apparent effort, she continued, "Usually we consider dealing with ... Wastelanders … a waste of time. You however are a former Vault dweller. You could be useful to us." She extended a gauntleted hand. "I am Defender Morgan. Our patrol is returning south to our base at Fort Independence. If you have any access to advanced tech items, we'll pay you well for them."

Arta ignored the hand and shook her head. "I've only got this." She tapped the pip boy on her wrist. "And Stanley always told me taking it off would be fatal."

"A myth!" Morgan sneered. "Vault tech designed the shelters as social and psychological experiments. Many of the things you've been told are deliberate lies and delusions. How does it feel to be a lab rat?"

"That's enough!" Jericho stepped in to prevent a furious Arta from reacting. "She ain't removing it, so you can all fuck off home." He added to Crow. "Let's say we get a three to two proportion of the loot, and we'll go collect it for you as well."

The mild-mannered trader considered, then assented with a nod. "My brother traders will soon be following in my footsteps. Walk well, friend. The spirits will be your guide."

"Well ain't that fucking A."

A hundred yards away, Arta came on the body of the Raider she'd shot on the bridge. She took the hunting rifle, looked down at the dead eyes staring through the transparent panels of the smoke hood. On an impulse she pulled it off. She tried to avoid gagging as Yoko's face was revealed: the half still distinguishable after the ruinous impact of her bullet. An unwanted memory of their intimacy intruded on her mind.

From behind, Jericho said, "Not easy, is it, turning on the poor fuckers you just broke bread with?"

Without turning round, she said, "Don't tell me you of all people are getting sentimental?"

"Nothing exactly wrong with that. Only if it gets in the way of your survival chances. I ain't sure what we've done here today has made those any better."

"We've cleared a route for the caravans, haven't we? Crow says some more are on the way. We can trade with them straight away. We'd never've managed to carry so much weapons and armour."

"You know you're right. That was well worth killing a bunch of teenagers for." He patted his pockets. "I need a smoke. I'd forgotten how fucked up everything was out here."

* * *

Burke and Sam Walsh stood together on the topmost balcony of Tenpenny Towers, the unbroken walls of the building descending many floors and over a hundred feet beneath them. Burke leaned slightly on the curving guardrail that ran all the way around the outside. At this hour the Wasteland landscape, bathed in the red glow of dawn, had a calm and lambent beauty all of its own. The distant ruins and road arches to the northwest seemed imbued with the grace and mystery of monuments to an older, better world. Looking down on the lands far below gave one a sense of tranquillity, of remoteness from the troubles of the world. No wonder it was a common saying amongst the residents: _at Tenpenny Towers, I'm on top of the world._

Burke didn't allow this feeling to distract him from keeping a close eye on his companion. Even with the ammunition temporarily removed from his weapons, Walsh was a formidable opponent, and one of the few with the speed and strength to seriously threaten him. Burke had no illusions about how fragile his control remained, and how much resentment the mercenary would be harbouring towards him. You humiliated such a man at your peril. Burke had no wish to follow his gaze over the rail and plummet towards the ground, even if such a death would be satisfyingly spectacular.

He said, "You are quite clear about the three components of your mission?"

Walsh seemed lost in contemplation of the view to the north. He said quietly, "In the past, things were simpler."

Burke selected a cigar from a box on a small table nearby. Lighting it up, he said, with mild reproof. "That depends on your perspective. The point is moot, as we can never go back."

"No we can't." With sudden accusation. "You, for one, made sure of that."

"That's why we must look to the future. We are both practical men."

"We're both exiles."

"Precisely. And so we are adaptable. We accept that situations change, and we turn them to our advantage."

"To _your _advantage, in this case."

"Come, Sam!" Burke raised his cigar in almost jovial fashion. "I told you before you're much better working with me. The mission remains the same in many ways but the rewards will be infinitely more satisfying."

Without turning his eyes from the horizon, Walsh said abruptly, "No, it's _not _the same."

Burke gave him a swift assessing glance. Carefully he said, "I take it you're concerned at the reaction of your former associates to phase one of the mission?"

"Obviously."

"I think you'll find that once the deed is done, they'll be happy to accept it as a _fait accompli_. After all, it's often said there's no honour among thieves. Where would their percentage be? For most ordinary mortals, killing you would be a difficult task."

"The percentage would be in making the point. Setting an example."

Burke inhaled, savouring the taste of the cigar in his mouth. He lowered and held it at an elegant angle, letting the stream of smoke flow into the breeze. "Well I suppose that's too bad. You'll just have to look at it from the opposite perspective. At the moment I see you as a knight on my chessboard. Useful … but a piece I'm quite willing to sacrifice. I'll give you twenty-four hours from the time you leave to initiate phase one. If I don't receive an immediate report of its success, I'll be alerting my contacts in Talon Company. Oh, don't think I'll be sending them against you. They'll be merely monitoring your position for when _I _come for you."

Walsh said nothing, and Burke hadn't really expected him to. He continued, "Assuming the first part of the mission is successful, you may as well go on to complete the rest exactly as stated. That's assuming you don't want the Kindred _and _Talon Company out looking for you. Phase two is hardly difficult, and mostly window dressing. But the third part …" Burke stubbed out his cigar on the rail, turned to face Walsh. "I want the girl _alive, _Sam. I don't need to tell you that accidents in this respect are _not _acceptable. Fail me, and there's no place on this earth you're going to be able to hide."

A nervous cough broke the silence. Susan Lancaster stood at the door to Tenpenny's suite behind them. She had put on a new, ankle length green dress, and her head was bandaged.

Burke turned. "Ah Susan! I trust you have, like Mr Walsh, somewhat recovered from your ordeal."

Unusually Susan had nothing to say, but merely nodded. _The presence of Walsh terrifies her. _Burke chuckled internally. _Certainly from her viewpoint, it's 'better the devil you know'. As far as she's aware, he has no reason not to do something unspeakable._ _And so giving her the next task will be most amusing. She's become too complacent about her position here. A dose of fear will be salutary. _

He said, "In that case, you can show Mr Walsh his new accommodation and give him a tour of the parts of the building he may have missed after his … ahem … swift arrival yesterday. Please remain with him at all times and take care of his needs. He may purchase anything from the shops except ammunition and melee weapons. Oh, and of course, explosives." Relishing the expression on her face, he added, with a cruel smile. "Have fun you two."

After their departure, Burke was left alone with his thoughts. There was much to be done. Walsh might be Burke's knight, but Tenpenny Towers was his castle, and he had better make sure it was more secure than formerly. A team from Talon Company was already on the way to bolster its defences. Their rough manners might not find favour with the residents but that was all to the good. There was going to be an end to laxity, indulgence and self-congratulation.

Nevertheless in itself that wasn't nearly enough. Burke glanced across to the empty chair where Tenpenny himself had been wont to sit admiring the view and, more often than not, imbibing too much whisky. Certainly the man had once had a vision but more recently he'd behaved like a quixotic fool, satisfied with his impressive but limited achievements and content to lord it over a narrow court of fawning sycophants. His demise was both fated and appropriate.

Burke himself must not fall into the same trap. He must surround himself with those who shared his vision of an outward, expanding empire. With respect to that, Arta, and perhaps Walsh, would be a good beginning. And their aim must not be confined to building an isolated enclave, but the complete transformation of the Wasteland itself.

Burke returned to his contemplation of the view, letting his gaze wander slowly across the whole vast panorama. The dream was ambitious, but he knew, he _knew _it was achievable. Everything he could see, and beyond. It must all be his.

* * *

"Four hundred caps!" Jericho moaned. "What a waste of money!"

"Oh come on now," Arta pouted. "Harith said he was offering it at a bargain price because he'd heard how we helped them out. Not that much more than you'd pay for an assault rifle in decent condition. And look at all the money you threw Doc Hoff's way. For his so-called 'discreet chemicals'.

"It's not an actual weapon, though is it? Just the plan for one. And I spent money on drugs because they're necessary. Whereas this … _Shit kebab_ … or whatever its called, ain't gonna get used unless you're right up close to someone."

"Says the man with the legendary sword! I'll remind you what happened in the last battle. And it's _Shishkebab. _Anyway the schematic allows you to build one from simple parts you should be able to find almost anywhere."

"Yeah that's the hype. Considering the man claims he sells weapons to spread peace I'd be just a little sceptical. He ain't called 'Lucky' Harith for nothing. Lucky that he meets plenty of rubes to keep flogging that trash to!"

"Don't be such a spoil sport!" Arta peered at the diagrams recorded on her pip boy. "See all you need is a pilot light, a lawn mower blade, a motorcycle gas tank and a handbrake. I mean it couldn't be more obvious where you get those things." She gave a little shriek of excitement. "Look, there's old motorcycle on the bridge right there."

"Whoa, whoa, slow up! There could be Mirelurks or mines or anything!" But Arta had already dashed towards the bottom of the huge road bridge spanning halfway across the Potomac. The morning sun glittered on the turgid waters below, glossed the road surface with a golden sheen, and exposed the rust on the usual wrecked vehicles dotted around.

Before moving forward onto the bridge, Arta scanned the way ahead carefully. Jericho's warning about mines wasn't out of place. According to the traders she'd spoken with, the inhabitants of Arefu were on the look out for trouble, and there were signs that defences like sandbags and other barricades had been erected. They might have added a few nasty surprises. But the way to the bike at least seemed clear. As she drew closer, she could see faded writing spelling something like _Arle Davison._

A quick examination brought immediate disappointment. The tank, brake and most of the other vital components had been removed.

Jericho caught up to her, wheezing slightly. "Jees, let me catch my breath!" He noticed her crestfallen look. "No luck, eh? It ain't surprising after all this time."

Arta's glum expression lightened. "It only goes to show how important someone considered these items. They must be stored or in use somewhere."

Jericho groaned. "Even if you come across 'em in the end, do you honestly reckon you can make a flaming sword out of that junk?"

Arta folded her arms determinedly. "Yes I do." She showed a serene smile. "After all, every Angel needs her flaming sword. Like the one protecting the Garden of Eden."

"The Garden of _what_?"

"Eden. It's in the Bible. The mythical paradise from which the first man and woman were expelled for their sins. The way back was barred by an angel."

"With a mythical flaming sword, I suppose? Just remember that word: _mythical_."

"Well." Arta moved to the edge of the bridge, looked reflectively out over the barren expanses of the Wastes, her eyes following the black threads of long dead power lines northwards. "Mythical or not, it's a sad little parable about the consequences of our evil nature, don't you think?"

"Maybe you gotta a point there."

"You know its funny," Arta continued, the rays of the sun shining on her new combat helmet with almost the effect of a halo. "In the Vault we had a story told to children about something called a G.E.C.K. That stands for Garden of Eden Creation Kit. It was supposedly a pre-war invention placed in the Vault which could transform an irradiated desert into blossoming fields, trees and fresh water." She shrugged. "Of course, once we were old enough, we realised it was just a fairytale to keep us happy when we were little kids."

"Oh, you mean like Santa Claus?"

"No, I never heard that one."

"A fat old man in a vehicle pulled by reindeer? They're kinda like brahmin? No?" Jericho looked embarrassed. "He was supposed to bring everyone presents once a year."

"Now that really sounds ridiculous!"

"Yeah. I used to tell it … I mean, Lei Peng told me when I was growing up."

Noticing his suddenly downcast expression, Arta said gently, "Maybe you miss that old ghoul?" Knowing he wouldn't admit it, she continued, "When Amata told me the G.E.C.K wasn't real, I cried and cried. The Overseer let her know first out of all the other children. I don't think he really liked people passing on that story, but they nearly always did anyway."

"Yeah, it figures. Parents want their kids to be happy while they can, don't they? Before they grow up into little bastards."

"That's a nice way to put it!" Arta turned to look beyond the barricades. A number of small dwellings were grouped together before the road ended in a jagged edge and a sickening drop. There was no apparent sign of life. "So isn't it about time we called on Lucy's folks?"

"No. You heard what the traders said. We don't want to risk any more friendly fire incidents. And once we've finished working on your combat armour, we gotta push on." Jericho looked down, avoiding Arta's eyes. She was instantly alert.

"Push on? Where to? I thought you said this was where we were heading?"

Jericho cleared his throat. "Yeah, in a manner of speaking. Apart from being one of the places the caravans stop at, it's right near a river crossing." He pointed to the west. "See there it dries up almost entirely and you can walk across without swimming or being pulled under by Mirelurks."

Arta cocked her head to one side to examine Jericho's expression. He was certainly uneasy about something. She said, "You haven't answered my question: if we're not going to Arefu, then where?"

"How about we leave that as a surprise? If we don't hang about, we'll make it there before nightfall."

"I'm beginning not to like surprises. Too many of them haven't been pleasant of late." She picked up a tin can, pitched it over the side of the bridge and into the water. "Just tell me already."

"Stop doing that! You'll bring Mirelurks and god knows what!"

Arta deliberately threw another can. "Why don't you want to tell me?"

"I said stop!" She paused in mid-throw, and he said, "Because I'm afraid you're going to freak out about it."

"If I am, then we might as well get it over with now."

When she made as if to throw again, he said hastily, "Okay. But at least let me explain why we have to go there."

"Go on then. Where are we going and why?"

He drew a breath. "We're going to Paradise Falls. For help."

* * *

*I know some will be thinking, why would the Overseer allow a GECK myth when his motto was 'We're born in the Vault, we die in the Vault.' Remember though that even in living memory, the Vault had been open and liberal enough to send out a survey team. Various rumours and myths might remain from that time. One way of dealing with them would be to dismiss as childhood fantasy any means of re-establishing a viable civilisation above ground.

Can you set fire to a flamer with a bullet? Apparently some participants in the D Day invasion left their flamers behind out of fear they might be blown up (though this might be because of the use of _tracer _ammunition from heavy machine guns). Maybe piercing the tank followed by ignition of the leaked fuel, perhaps by the weapon's own pilot light, could cause self-immolation.

I can envisage some Raider groups occasionally allowing caravans to pass in exchange for goods. After all, caravans are hardly soft targets: in my experience its often the Raiders who end up dead. There's even a Raider trader in Evergreen Mills. But of course agreements with Raiders, like those with Vikings, would be extremely problematic.

In the game there are no extra shelters near Kaelyn's, but where are the poor Raiders supposed to go for r&r after a hard days murder and torture?

The inspiration for Lalita's character came from a well-known film, and there are some pretty strong clues. If you guessed, remember it's _based on _rather than _identical_. I say this to protect myself from accusations of making a lousy job describing her.*


	22. Strictly Business

Ch 22 Strictly Business

"One thousand caps," said Eulogy Jones. "A fair price, considering the long term investment, the excellence of the product and the necessity of finding a suitable replacement."

"Whether or not its fair," Jericho replied carefully. "We can't afford it."

The head slaver of Paradise Falls nodded solemnly. "I'm always attentive to my clients' needs, and try to work around them if at all possible. The price is the price, but it's always possible to arrange other methods of payment, especially between old business partners, such as ourselves."

"Now wait just a minute …" Arta began. She had had enough of feeling sidelined after her time amongst the Raiders, and was determined to have her say.

They stood in the semi-darkness of _Eulogy's pad_, the head slaver's residence and once a theatre for the viewing of films. Arta had thought the architecture, with its pillars, columns and ornate decoration, surprisingly elaborate compared with the plain room Vault 101 used to show video materials, including the infamous G.O.A.T. test. It appeared the people of the past had considered a visit to the movies an important occasion. The ancient projector still threw a clear but unchanging rectangular image onto the wall, providing almost the only illumination. The light reflected from the garish, red silk quilt which took up much of the space in the middle of the floor, and seemed to serve as bedding for Eulogy Jones and his two female bodyguards, Crimson and Clover. None of the tiers of seating remained, but Arta had observed a side table with a computer terminal and, rather to her surprise, a Vault tech bobblehead nodding sadly in the gloom.

"When we came to Paradise Falls," she continued, "we weren't aiming to buy or sell any slaves."

A corner of Eulogy Jones' mouth twisted upwards, and his eyes, the cold, dead eyes of a snake, languidly shifted their gaze to look into her own. His dark-featured countenance had a smoothness about it and his short, wiry, black hair showed barely a hint of grey. Only his hands and eyes revealed the marks of age. Though he bore no close physical resemblance, of all the Wastelanders Arta had encountered, he reminded her most of the Overseer. Those eyes like hard ebony stones would look with indifference on the suffering of his captives, seeing only the opportunity for profit. His ears would be deaf to pleas for mercy, hearing rather the chink of the caps offered in exchange for their bondage. The heart beneath his well-cared-for flesh moved to the sole beat of commerce.

She shivered. Here was another accustomed to the exercise of absolute power in the sphere he commanded. All the more dangerous, because he held that power so casually.

She said, knowing her words would have little effect, "We came for your help, for which we're grateful."

The merest expulsion of air, almost a cough, indicated Jones' amusement. "It's seldom that we get visitors for purposes other than to buy or sell our particular products. Paradise Falls is always here for you, but it usually takes as well as giving. Information we've exchanged freely. Anything more substantial costs."

Arta had felt a sense of dread ever since she'd first sighted the large conglomeration of blank walled buildings, along with the guard towers, the barricades and razor wire. Most horrible of all, the gigantic idiotically grinning effigy of a man, whose visage, visible kilometres away, was decayed as though pock-marked, and held in its up thrust hand an ice-cream cone, like a parody of the ancient Statue of Liberty. Once a shopper's paradise, the Falls now traded in humans as though they were cattle.

She had argued long and hard with Jericho about avoiding the place, but he'd stubbornly resisted, pointing out that there was nowhere else within reasonable range from which they might obtain the information and assistance they required, except by returning to Megaton. And that might've become dangerous. He'd also given fairly short shrift to her other fear: that they'd end up in the slave pens themselves.

"Eulogy and probably a few others there know me well enough. Which means they know trying any funny business wouldn't be worth the price in lives it'd cost them. Those fuckers always operate on percentages. But stay alert and mind your manners. They can't be trusted, and they can get very narked if you rub them up the wrong way."

And so she'd agreed to go along, and the incidents of the journey had driven the greater fear from her mind. Once across the dried up bed of the river, they'd avoided the distant, shuffling white forms of Mirelurks and discovered a small cluster of buildings, including a boarded up shop, next to another isolated metro station. Accessing the store with a bobby pin, they'd found many tradable items and an old oven. Much to Arta's delight, the pilot light was still salvageable. Then, with some daring, and even greater fortune, they'd descended into the subway, finding not the feral zombies that Arta had feared, but a couple of educated, suspicious but non-hostile ghouls engaged in research into a new form of Ultrajet. They had struck a deal with the creatures to trade packets of Sugar Bombs, apparently essential ingredients for the combat drug. Arta had also persuaded them to part with an old motorcycle gas tank that happened to be lying around. She was already halfway towards collecting the components of her _Shishkebab_.

Deciding to not risk a further excursion into the tunnels at the back of the ghouls' lab, they'd returned above ground to find the sun declining from its zenith and the formidable heat of mid-afternoon upon them. Tramping northwards through the sweltering temperatures in her new black combat armour, Arta was cresting another hill slope, when her relief was cut short as a warning rattle sounded from nearby. On the brow of the hill, its form outlined by blinding sunshine, was an insect-like, many legged shape about the size of a large dog, the huge stinger overarching its back swaying threateningly as it scuttled rapidly towards them.

Arta opened fire with her submachine gun, noting with alarm that the bullets bounced easily off the hard carapace. Even the more powerful assault rifle rounds Jericho was firing at the stinger seemed only partially effective. As the creature drew nearer, she was forced into a panicky retreat, as it ignored Jericho and homed in on the nearest target. Just when she was on the point of tumbling down the hill, the stinger drooped, and the mutant insect finally succumbed to the hail of bullets.

Breathing hard, she gasped, "That scorpion was fucking huge!"

"Huge? You're kidding! That was a small one. Wait till you see a real Giant Radscorpion. Then you'll know what huge means. If we ever meet one, you'll be wanting something like that flaming sword. Fire's about the only thing that'll drive them back."

"I only need two more items. A handbrake and a lawnmower blade."

"I ain't even sure I remember what a lawnmower is."

"I think the pre-war people liked to have areas of short grass near their houses called lawns. Mowers were machines that cut them."

"Oh, I get you. I've seen things like that near old houses. We'll find one eventually."

Pausing only to extract the poison gland which Jericho explained was quite valuable, they reached the Paradise Falls complex without further trouble, as the light of early evening cast a ruddy shade over its perimeter. The guard at the entrance, Grouse, gave them an initially unfriendly welcome, but having sent his companion to enquire within about Jericho's credentials, announced they were free to enter.

* * *

Paradise Falls was like a huge, armed camp. Or rather, Arta thought, like a _prison _camp, such as had existed in the big wars of the twentieth century. This had been brought home to her, even before she'd reached the inner gates. They'd caught sight of a fugitive figure in rags, fleeing desperately towards them along the approach pathway, fenced on either side by barricades and razor wire. Suddenly there was a sharp detonation, and the man's head seemed to explode, flying off in a welter of blood.

Kneeling horrified to examine the body, Arta had discovered the remains of a metal collar the escaped slave had worn round his neck, and which appeared to be the source of the explosion.

"What's this?" she asked Jericho. "Is it what killed him?"

"Yup. That's a slave collar. While they're in the Falls, or being brought here, they all wear them. It's got some kind of radio beacon, and a ring of plastic explosives. Run too far in the wrongdirection, and _boom_. Say good-bye to your head."

"That's sick."

"Maybe. But it's very, very effective. They hardly need armed guards to keep control of the prisoners. When they're not out looking for fresh meat, their main job is to make sure no one tries to bust in from the outside."

Arta had soon met some of these guards, and realised that the task of any would-be rescuer was formidable. The slavers of Paradise Falls made the Raiders she'd just spent the night with look like a band of ill-organised cub scouts. Many wore suits of leather armour lighter than those of the Raiders, but in near perfect condition; and this was also true of the powerful weapons they carried, mostly gleaming Chinese assault rifles and pump action shotguns. More than this, there was a sense of alertness and a kind of professionalism which, though it stopped short of military discipline, gave the impression they would be constantly on their guard and ready for a fight. Unlike the Raiders, drink, drugs or sex wouldn't distract them. Even if they had no objection to these pleasures, they would indulge in them no more than was consistent with their task.

Most of the guards appeared antagonistic to anyone who bothered them or didn't behave like a normal customer – or perhaps that was simply their disposition. As she waited with Jericho in the compound's outdoor refectory, Arta caught hostile looks and remarks such as, "Smells like meat!" She was sure they weren't referring to the huge spitted brahmin carcase roasting over an open fire, and wondered whether Jericho's belief in his talismanic status had been justified.

Two slavers in particular had attached themselves to their company. One was a huge bear of a man called Ymir, who seemed acquainted with Jericho, and was considerably friendlier. He and his son, Jotun, wore spiked armour of metal and spoke in strangely thick accents, so that Arta once again recalled the fantasy world of Grognak and its northern barbarians from the land of the frost giants. Ymir seemed to her almost like a giant king himself with his brawny strength, black beard and loud laugh.

With an expansive gesture he turned to introduce them to a second slaver, a woman.

"Ah, Carolina, you are here! This is my good friend, Jericho, from Megaton, and his lovely companion, Arta. She is a Vault girl."

The woman gave Arta a look that seemed to combine ferocity with lust: "You're from a Vault? Well ain't you a cute little varmint!"

Arta regarded the new arrival with attention. Could this be the fearsome Carolina Red that Silver had intended to sell her to? She bore a striking resemblance in physical form and beauty to Mara the Raider, except that she was somewhat shorter, and her expression even crueller. It occurred to Arta that, despite Trinny's boast, there was much common ground between slavers and Raiders. Both captured unwilling victims, and treated them unscrupulously. It was certainly quite plausible for one to become the other. Shuddering as she imagined what could have happened had she fallen into this woman's hands, she made no reply.

Ymir clapped Jericho on the shoulders. "Come let us drink! Drink! Jotun, bring us more wine! Wine makes one live only for the moment."

Before the hulking blonde youth could comply, all turned in response to the arrival of another woman. In contrast to the other slavers, she was dressed in a smart, pink dress and her make-up and hairstyle were elaborate, the locks swept severely across and coloured a platinum blonde that was virtually white. Arta was surprised to see that, although she was armed with a sawn-off shotgun, she wore a slave collar around her elegant throat, the red gem-like stud on the front glowing to show it was active. Why would a slave be allowed to carry a weapon?

She had no time to enquire, as the woman immediately spoke in bored tone: "Mr. Eulogy can't see you right now. He's busy. He says to wait out here until he's ready for you." Her mouth snapped shut.

Ymir shrugged, and gestured towards the bar. "It's the privilege of the powerful to make you wait. Come my friends, strong drink will make the time fly by."

To Arta's great astonishment, Jericho raised a hand in refusal. "Later Ymir. I want to buy one of your Chink weapons for Arta. Take care of her while I go to the store. Better still, help her get some firing practice." Without waiting for a reply, he set off back the way they had come.

Abandoned once more, Arta looked uncertainly at Ymir. The bearded giant gave a grin that was not completely reassuring.

"You wish to try out one of our assault rifles? Fine, but first we drink! Jotun!"

The woman Arta supposed to be Carolina Red spoke up: "You wanna see what a Chinese Assault can do? Okay, Vault girl, take a look at this!"

Before Arta could react, Carolina had unslung her rifle and pointed it downwards. She fired a burst directly in front of Arta. In panic, the Vault woman jerked back first one foot, then the other, and as the bullets zinged around her, sending up puffs of dust, she was forced to dance a clumsy jig.

Carolina Red was laughing insanely. "Dance, little girl, dance! Ha, ha, this is so much fun!" She seemed intent on pumping rounds until the clip was empty.

"Carolina, that's enough! These people are Eulogy's guests," Ymir boomed. The slaver woman reluctantly ceased fire, and he added, "Why do you always have to be such a mean bitch?

"You think I'm mean? That's nothing. If you want _real _mean …"

"Yes, yes, I know all about your father and how he used to cut off people's legs for the amusement of seeing them crawl away. I agree; in comparison to him you're a real humanitarian. Now why don't you give me your gun, and fuck off." He put an arm round Arta, who was shaking in mingled rage and fear. "A shot of vodka will set you right."

Carolina reslung the rifle. "No one touches my weapon. Get your own lousy gun." To Arta she said jeeringly: "You think you're safe with him? He beat in the barkeep's skull just this morning with his supersledge. The poor fucker's still lying there."

Looking in the direction she pointed, Arta noticed to her dismay that a pair of booted feet were sticking out from behind the bar.

Ymir tutted, and thoughtfully stroked the heavy hammer-like weapon he carried. "I forgot! He cheated me by watering down the vodka. Jotun! Take this dead fuck away before he starts stinking up the place. And bring me an assault rifle." He added, "It seems I must replace that no good shit and pour my own drinks. Ach, at least they will be strong like blood."

Jotun seized the corpse by one leg and began dragging it away. Passing Arta, he said, "I try to take care of my father. But it is … a big job."

Reaching for a vodka bottle, Arta tilted it up, and gratefully gulped down a large quantity.

Ymir watched smiling: "Ah, you drink well! You and I will get on fine."

Her throat burning, Arta observed that the woman in the pink dress had not left after delivering her message, but had lingered to watch the preceding events. Emboldened by the liquor, she decided to try and find answers to the questions that had been puzzling her.

The woman watched her approach with the incurious gaze of a bored child. Arta perceived about her a fragile, exotic beauty which was hard to attribute to any one feature, but was rather a product of the unusual arrangement of the whole. Her eyes were widely spaced, and coloured a deep grey-blue that was almost violet, her nose was a small and oddly shaped knob, her mouth fleshy and sensual. Her face had an appealing slight chubbiness, the skin toned a soft gold. _You could look and look at her, _Arta thought, _and always find something to fascinate you._ She remembered that Amata had said something similar about _her _face.

Clearing her throat, she began: "May I ask who you are, and what you do here?"

The woman regarded her indifferently. Then she said, with the air of repeating something by rote: "Mr Eulogy don't like me talking to the johnnies without his permission."

"I beg your pardon … talking to _who_?" Arta queried.

With a hint of exasperation, the woman replied, "The johnnies. You know, the customers."

"Oh, I see." Fighting off the slight giddiness induced by the vodka, Arta paused to consider. "But Mr. Eulogy isn't here to see you talking to me," she pointed out. "And I'm not exactly a customer either."

The woman likewise hesitated. Then she said: "My name is Clover. I'm Mr. Eulogy's bodyguard … and companion."

"Really? You mean you protect him … and sleep with him?" Arta cursed the vodka for her indiscretion, but the woman merely nodded.

"In that case," Arta continued, "why aren't you protecting him now?"

Clover's expression became even surlier. "He has another bodyguard," she said. "A bitch called Crimson."

"Who's also his companion?"

"Yes."

Arta sensed her probing was provoking a response. "I bet you're not too happy about that," she suggested.

Clover chewed her lip. "I'm not," she said. "But Mr. Eulogy said he'd get rid of her one day. And I have to do what he says."

"Because you're his slave," Arta concluded triumphantly.

The bodyguard's hand almost unconsciously went to touch her collar. "That's true," she admitted. "But I want to make Daddy … I mean Mr. Eulogy, happy. He's always been so … you see, he always does so much …" She stopped in confusion.

Arta pressed home the point. "If he really trusts you, then he'll take the collar off, won't he?"

Clover's mouth drooped downwards. "He's not gonna do that."

Feeling a throb of sympathy, Arta said gently: "Have you ever even thought to ask him?"

"N … no. I … I love him."

_She loves him? _Arta thought. _Of all the crazy …_

Clover blinked and shook herself. "I ought to be getting back to Mr. Eulogy." She spoke in the same bored manner as before.

_It's as though a shutter's gone down in her mind. _Arta said, "Well I'm supposed to be training to fire assault rifles."

A flicker of interest passed across Clover's face. "I can show you. Mr. Eulogy's made me learn to use all kinds of weapons. That bitch Crimson isn't even much good with her stupid sword. But mostly these days I only get to use this shotgun." She gave a sudden child-like grin. "You have a fine sniper rifle. I'm very accomplished with that weapon. Let me have a shot, and I'll show you how to fire automatics."

Arta felt some reluctance as she tallied her remaining ammunition. She'd bought two clips of five from Lucky Harith, making twenty-nine rounds in total, four more than she'd originally possessed. She'd only used six herself, two on the ants, two on the Guai, and two against the Raiders. However she was intensely curious to see what Clover could do.

She said, "Okay, but only one please."

Clover received the sniper rifle with eager fingers. She cast her gaze around as though looking for a suitable target, and her grin widened. Silently she pointed to a table in the bar area, where Carolina Red had sat down to enjoy a beer.

Arta's eyes widened in horror, and Clover giggled. "Don't worry, I won't touch a hair of her head." In a quick motion, she brought the sniper rifle up, and sighted along it. As Carolina raised the bottle to her lips, it shattered, spraying beer all over her face and clothes.

With a roar of rage, Red jumped to her feet, twisting in the direction of the shot, and reaching backwards for her assault rifle.

Deliberately raising her aim, Clover sang out, "Touch that gun, and I can take your off head just as easily."

"You fucking bitch! You'd better not try that again!" But the slaver woman lowered her arm, while continuing to seethe. To Arta, she growled, "Did you put her up to this?"

Arta shrugged. "I've only just met her but I'm liking her already."

"If Eulogy would let me, I'd throw you both in the pens with the rest of the meat!"

Clover laughed. "Ha, ha, ha, you're afraid because you _know _that I'm the best. If you dish it out, then you should expect to take it, darlin'. Remember that, next time you try to bully someone." Handing Arta her weapon back she said, "I like_ you_ too."

"Have you finished playing your silly games yet?" Arta and Clover turned. A woman was standing behind them wearing an identical pink dress. Her skin was as dark as Clover's was pale, her hair jet-black and cut in a kind of flattop. She wore a sword at her belt.

_Crimson, presumably. She looks pissed like someone stuck something up her butt._

When she saw she had their attention, Crimson continued, "Mr. Eulogy is ready to see his guests. And he wants you, Clover, to move your arse quick and attend on him."

Clover gave a jerk, like a puppet whose strings had been pulled. "Oh, I've got to get back to Da … to Mr, Eulogy. He mustn't be angry with me." To Arta she said, "I'm sorry. Maybe we'll shoot together another time." Then she dashed away to join with the frowning Crimson, heading towards the dilapidated cinema at the back of the compound.

_An odd creature, this, _Arta thought. _Seemingly servile yet mischievous, vulnerable but violently assertive. In a place full of crazies she's just about the craziest._

"Having yourself a time?" Arta jumped at the sound of Jericho's voice close by.

"In a way." Seeing that he was empty-handed, she asked, "So where's my assault rifle?"

He snorted. "That arse-wipe running the store didn't have any. Claims he only gets hand me downs from the slaver crews, and they always keep the best stuff. Useless twat." In a less impatient tone he added, "Ready to meet the Man? Well, there he is."

Arta looked back towards the run down theatre. As the last rays of sunset invested it with a kind of faded glory, someone had stepped out onto the balcony in front, a tall man in a red suit.

_At last I'm going to meet the person everyone is so afraid of. What will he be like? And will I need a long spoon to sup with him?_

* * *

"In Paradise Falls," Eulogy Jones said, "We're not in the habit of making moral judgements. Colin Moriarty's activities are seldom in conflict with my own, nor are the Kindred much concern to me."

_His clothes are rather dandified, _Arta thought. _That bright red jacket and open necked purple shirt._ _But there's little else about him that's flamboyant. He weighs his words, each one carefully calculated. He speaks softly and with a controlled strength. Just listening to him is a learning experience._

"And the fate of Megaton?" she asked. "Are you happy to see it blown sky-high?"

Jones' brow furrowed just slightly. "That would be an inconvenience," he admitted. "It's a useful source for our business activities, both buying and selling. But what you've said hasn't convinced me that it's threatened by Moriarty in the long or short term. Like myself, he's a business man."

It had quickly become clear that they would get no help from Jones unless they explained the whole circumstances surrounding their quest. His astute questions soon tore through most of their efforts to hold things back. Arta had even feared he would know or find out about her responsibility for Silver's death. He'd strongly hinted about a source of information close to Moriarty that had dried up. Now he seemed to be making up for that loss by pumping them instead. _We came here for his knowledge. Instead we've given him ours._

Jericho said, "It's not only Colin that's the problem, Eulogy. He's the fucker we suspect's on our arse. But there's more than one dog in the chasing pack."

"This man Burke."

Arta asked quickly, "What do you know about him?"

Jones gave a wry smile. "Zippo except what you've told me. He's been remarkably successful in staying below the radar."

_That admission must have cost him something in pride, _Arta thought. Following up on Jericho's point, she said urgently, "Even if Moriarty may not threaten Megaton, Burke almost certainly does. And you've admitted you know next to nothing about his backers or their agenda."

Jericho added, "If Moriarty stops our mission, then Burke could win out too. We've got to deep-six that bomb for good."

Eulogy Jones nodded slowly. "All right. You've convinced me to offer you at least some help. You've given me information which may or may not be valuable. I'll reciprocate. Moriarty has placed a price on your heads amongst the Kindred of five hundred caps. That's two fifty a piece: I'd be insulted if I were you. Of more direct concern, he's hired his favourite assassin to track you down."

Jericho pulled his beard. "Sam Walsh! Just what I figured!"

"The same. I believe your paths have crossed in the past."

"Yeah. I saved his arse on one occasion."

"That's what he told me when he was last here. As to where he is now …" Jones shrugged. "Of course his reputation is as absolutely unstoppable, but then they say that about most assassins who are still alive."

"In Walsh's case, it ain't far from the truth."

"Perhaps. If I were you, I wouldn't go walking over the open Wastes."

Jericho grimaced. "For the present, we ain't got no choice."

"Then you'd better hope he isn't close on your heels." Jones shook his head regretfully. "There are those among my people who may inform him of your presence. You may be safe here in the Falls, but should you try to leave …"

Arta asked impatiently, "Is this the best you can do? Warn us to watch our backs?"

Jericho shot her a look, but Jones indulged in a rare laugh. "Oh, there's much more I could do. But my help doesn't come cheap." He scratched his nose thoughtfully. "I believe you've met my bodyguard Clover."

Arta glanced across to where Clover was standing in the shadows, apparently engaged in removing some wax from her ear.

Lowering her voice, she said, "Yes, and she's about the craziest woman I've ever met!"

"Oh, she is. Crazy in love, crazy in the sack, crazy every which way but loose. She's also about the most accomplished combateer and sniper I've come across. Maybe even better than Walsh." Jones made a suave gesture. "I can always afford another bodyguard, perhaps one with less … issues. And so for a very reasonable price, Miss Clover could be crazy for you."

* * *

"So do you like what you see?"

Sam Walsh surveyed the private suite. The floor was real marble, the fittings the finest mahogany. There was a queen-sized bed and an obsequious Mr Handy robot floating in mid-air. Probably there was a bath with gold taps somewhere nearby. _The kind of luxury I could allow myself to get used to._

He turned to look at the woman who'd put the question so curtly. Susan Lancaster was still on tenterhooks, occasionally chewing her knuckles.

He smiled as though to include her in the comment, and said, "Yes, very much!"

She seemed disturbed by his implied tone. Speaking quickly, she said, "Well now you've seen it, let's go down to the lobby and …"

"Wait a moment." He deliberately placed himself between her and the door. He could see her chest rise and fall rapidly, the look of panic.

Keeping his voice deliberately calm, he said, "I thought we might have a little talk. About old times and so on." She continued to look warily at him, twisting her blonde hair around her fingers. "Come Susan, you're not _afraid _of me, are you?"

She said tensely, "I thought that you were angry with me."

"Why angry?" He moved a little closer. "After all, if it wasn't for you, I might never have got out of that hell-hole."

Biting her lip, she said, "You know very well that you just used me to escape. And as to why I think it, I've hardly forgotten that you put a gun to my head and then pistol whipped me."

He took another step. "Anger is one thing. Trust is another. I couldn't be sure to whom your loyalty was given."

She made no reply, and he moved almost within reach. "Now I know you hate Burke as much as I do."

"I …"

Before she could say more, he crushed her to himself so powerfully that the breath was driven from her body. Then he pressed his lips forcefully to hers. For a moment she resisted, tried to struggle and turn away, but he pursued her with his mouth, keeping her face close to his with a firm pressure on the back of her head, and little by little her resistance seemed to end and she began to respond to his kisses and caresses.

Unceremoniously, he reached beneath her spring green dress and yanked down her panties, threw her onto the large bed, and began unzippering his leather armour. She watched him, licking her lips a little; nervously, invitingly, lustfully; he didn't care which. Pinning her down, he entered her with slow but relentless thrusts. For a while she made only incoherent gasps and moans.

After a while, she pulled down her dress again, and said in more normal tones, "Can you tell that robot to stop watching?"

He lay back on the snowy pillow, interlacing his hands behind his head. "I don't think it can. It's programmed to be attentive to its master's needs."

"Well _that _was one it couldn't satisfy." After a pause, she added. "You realise this doesn't really change anything. I'm not helping you."

"You just have, more than adequately."

"You know what I mean."

He reflected for a moment, said casually. "Get me some sniper and pistol rounds, and I'll settle Burke and his Talon friends."

"And what exactly would that achieve?" He looked at her enquiringly, and she said with sudden passion. "You're right, I hate Burke. I loathe him. But someone's got to hold this place together. And you killed Alistair."

Mildly he said, "You underestimate me."

"Oh, come on!" With undisguised scorn. "They might fear you but they'd never follow and respect you!"

"And you're telling me Burke won't rule by fear?"

"Yes, but at least he has a sense of what Tenpenny Towers was supposed to be. We had to tow the line, but every one of us felt we were … special. A cut above the rest. You'd just make it into some sleazy, criminal den."

"As I said, you underestimate me." She turned her head away. Putting an arm on her shoulder, he said coaxingly, "Alright then, we'll kill Burke and leave."

"For the Wastes? That would be no life. I'd rather go back to the Falls."

"You know neither of us could go back there. They don't like being crossed, and they don't forgive."

"They're not alone in that." They both leapt from the bed at the sound of Burke's voice. He stood in the doorway leading to the balcony, calmly smoking a cigar.

* * *

Even with the light of the projector falling on them, Eulogy Jones' eyes seemed as dull as those of a wax image, the look in them indifferent as he waited for a response.

Arta said, "Do you mind if we discuss this in private?"

Jones pointed to a side door. "Sure. Go right up on the balcony if you like. But you haven't heard my revised offer yet."

"We need to … establish some ground rules." She looked meaningfully at Jericho, who was trying to avoid her gaze.

_Even in this hellhole, the sunset comes with a kind of beauty. _She tried not to look at the loathsome statue, and the pens where the slaves were kept. She'd caught sight of them briefly as she approached _Eulogy's Pad_. _My god, they even had children there!_

"So?" He sounded suddenly tired.

Instead of looking at him, she watched the grey clouds gathered around the setting sun.

"He knows we can't afford one thousand caps. We offer him five hundred."

"He's not going to …"

"Listen," she said. "No deals, just caps."

"Like he said, you haven't even …"

"What kind of offer d'you think he's going to make? He's a fucking slave trader. Obviously he wants us to get him slaves."

"Maybe he'll let us put off payment for a while."

"On easy credit terms? You're joking!" She folded her arms accusingly. "You _knew _something like this would happen, didn't you?"

"Me, I didn't …"

"Because when you were the Raider's War Chief you used to trade your captives to Paradise Falls."

"How the hell did you know that?"

"It wasn't very hard to guess. All that shit about being old business partners. I imagine you got plenty of guns and ammunition in exchange so you could act the great general."

"Yeah, alright, so I did. The captives avoided being tortured and killed so it was a good deal for everyone. I would've sent them all there if I could but then I wouldn't have lasted a day as leader."

"Well that's not happening again. We go right back in there and stick to our guns, okay."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing? There's a lot at stake here. If Sam Walsh is involved, we'll need all the help we can get. And you don't know Eulogy like I do"

"Yes, I think we've established that, haven't we?"

* * *

Leaning against the doorway, Burke's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. _Perhaps I should've anticipated this. _He decided not to waste time building up the tension. _Being caught in flagrante is usually disconcerting, but Walsh is the kind to quickly recover._

He said, "I thought something like this might occur. Hatred and love being not so far removed and so on. But I must admit I had no idea you two went so far back. Useful information for which I can thank our Handy friend here."

Taking a quick drag on his cigar to allow the impact of that to take effect, he went on, "In other respects however, your actions were perfectly predictable. That you, Sam, would contemplate treachery against your newest _master …" _laying emphasis on the word, " … was hardly surprising. By the same token, I was confident Susan would remain essentially loyal regardless of her personal feelings. Feelings which, by the way, I'm entirely indifferent to." He gave a shark's grin. "I'm quite sure that in similar circumstances, Eulogy Jones would have you both put to death in some entertainingly horrible way. And indeed I've been considering various methods …" _let them feel the chill of that! _"… but for the moment, merely hypothetically. The practicalities of the situation remain. You, Sam, have a mission to perform. I see no further reason for delay."

Walsh gave the faintest of smiles, which Burke noted. _So he felt some relief. Good!_

"A slight change of plan, however. You'll be accompanied by a couple of Talon mercenaries to within sight of Megaton. They will then hand over your ammunition and equipment and leave. Naturally should they fail to return, I'll draw the obvious conclusion."

Walsh nodded, began to put on his armour.

Burke noted with pleasure that Susan Lancaster was still white with fear. She after all, had no essential mission to perform, and was uncertain as to what punishment she might expect to receive, if any.

_I'll leave her in delicious suspense about that! _He said, "Come, Susan, let us retire to my suite. For the present you too can perform a useful function." _This will also bring home to Sam that I can take anything of his that I want for my own. I must rely less on persuasion, more on compulsion._

_It's a pity I don't have a reliable right hand man – or woman – but it can't be helped in the short term. And I'll have to forgo my periods of contemplation on the balcony for at least a few days. With that customised scope on his rifle, Sam Walsh can hit a target from a remarkably long way away. Living dangerously is all very well, but I can't afford to take stupid risks._

But Burke was confident, _very _confident that once Walsh started his mission he would carry it through to completion. Because … that was what he did.

* * *

Paradise Falls lay far below and to the southwest, the whole compound with its scabrous statue visible in the last of the twilight.

Looking back, Arta said, "I really thought we'd be able to persuade him. After all, it was in his own interest."

"I didn't." Jericho's voice held reproach. "Whether or not he approved of what we're doing, he wasn't going to strike a deal he didn't like, especially when you were refusing to play his game. He's not without pride you know."

Arta thought of Jones' parting words, and had to agree.

_No, I won't be strong-armed, especially not by a woman. Maybe its time you learned who wears the trousers around here. If you don't want to negotiate properly, then you can leave. See how the Guai and Radscorpions listen to your ultimatums._

And he'd kept to those words. After summoning Jericho for one last talk, he'd ordered them ejected. Arta remembered Clover's downcast look with regret, and tried to forget Carolina Red's gleeful smirk as she escorted them to the main gate and banged it shut.

The rocky outcrop they now stood atop had taken them some hard trekking, cunning evasion and over an hour to reach. Almost immediately after leaving the Falls they'd seen in the distance the threatening bulk of a Giant Radscorpion lying low amongst the sand and detritus of a valley. Arta marvelled at the size of the creature, which certainly made the smaller version look tame in comparison. The stinger alone was the length of a man, and the whole monster as long and as wide as one of the wrecked motor vehicles she could see on the road passing through the vale.

His voice the faintest whisper, Jericho said, "They track by vibrations in the ground. If you walk in a certain way, they can't detect you. Follow me and move exactly as I do."

Carefully skirting the creature to the south, they went unmolested until reaching the foot of the cliffs. At this point, a whirring noise had alerted them to a new danger. A cylindrical robot with a transparent dome for a head was trundling towards them on tracked wheels.

It called out in a mellifluous female voice: "Please do not trouble yourselves by trying to run. I will find you wherever you go."

"Come on." Jericho pulled Arta behind a rocky mound. "Whatever it says, it can't climb well. Let's stay out of sight and get up the slope. But watch yourself. It can fire bolts of plasma which are far worse than lasers if they hit you. And there's an actual brain inside that glass bowl of a head."

The pleasantly insistent voice soon fell behind, and they were atop the towering cliffs, following the line of a broken bridge to the east.

Shivering slightly in the dusk wind, Arta asked. "Are you sure this was a better way to come than going back south? We seem to keep running into trouble all the time."

Jericho grunted. "Retracing our steps and running into Sam Walsh wouldn't have been very smart, would it? And southeast would take us near Germantown. Last I heard it was a Supermutant camp where they like to take human prisoners and do fuck knows what to them. This way we should eventually reach the northern entrance to the metro, which ought to take us near Galaxy News Radio. _Friendship Heights_, I think it's called.

"So we're definitely not returning to Megaton first?"

"No. That would be a big fucking mistake. There's still a fair chance that Walsh and his crowd don't know where we are. We want to keep it that way as long as possible." Arta still looked reluctant, and he added, "If you don't think you're up to moseying through central DC yet, then don't worry. Friendship Heights is in Bethesda clan territory. What with them and the ghouls underground, you'll have plenty of combat practice if we make it that far."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Arta looked north to what appeared to be a ruined and empty settlement. "Maybe we could find somewhere to rest up." In truth she was already feeling dog-tired. Since the early morning battle, the nearest she'd come to relaxing was waiting for Eulogy. Being on the jump for too long had piled up her levels of mental fatigue close to breaking point.

"None of the buildings are intact. We're more likely to find critters or Raiders."

"What about that big one over there? The one with the rounded roof." It was an old barn, but Arta was ignorant of the fact.

"Okay, we'll check it out. But carefully."

The barn had an open doorway, with a window on the first floor. Only the back end of this remained, with a wooden staircase leading up. Darkness and silence reigned. Cautiously they mounted the stairs. On the platform above they found cupboards containing little of value, and an old mattress.

Arta collapsed onto it, her head throbbing with fatigue. She already felt herself succumbing to sleep.

Jericho sat down cross-legged next to her, his assault rifle held pointing towards the top of the staircase. "Looks like I'm taking the first watch," he muttered.

* * *

Arta felt herself roughly pulled awake, her erotic dream involving Carolina Red and Clover rudely interrupted. Her body was heavy with sleep, and she sensed not much time had passed.

Jericho was the one shaking her. "C'mon you've gotta get up."

Facing them at the top of the stairs was a ragged figure, a bulky tank strapped to his back, wearing a cap and goggles.

"This here's my place, get the hell out!" he yelled.

Still woozy, Arta slurred, "Please, can't we just stay a little?"

"No fucking way! Get your arses out before I torch y'all."

"Easy friend." Jericho held up a hand in placation. "We're leaving right now." He helped Arta to stagger forward to the ramp.

Covering them with the flamethrower, the hobo said excitedly, "Go on, keep moving! I hope you ain't been messing with my stuff."

"Here, keep these." Jericho tossed some caps to the floor.

"Well good riddance to you, motherfuckers!"

Arta found herself stumbling out of the barn into a semi-waking nightmare of fear. The moon had not yet risen, and the darkness seemed to press close around her. She felt that death in the form of the claws or teeth of some monstrous creature was only metres away.

They had progressed less than a hundred paces in this way, when Jericho stopped, seized Arta by the shoulders and shook her hard again. When this didn't provoke a response, he slapped her several times on both cheeks at once.

"What the hell …?"

"Wakey, wakey! Sleepy time is over for now. You're not concentrating!"

"Concentrating? What about you? You let that loon creep up on you."

"I spotted him. What … you'd rather I nailed a drifter so you could get your shut-eye? Oh sorry, I forgot. Wasting hobos is your speciality, isn't it?" He spat. "Pull yourself together!"

Something of the feeling of a scolded child rose in Arta, and she said, with a sob in her voice, "But I'm tired, I'm hungry and … I'm afraid."

"Oh yeah? Well maybe you should've stayed in your hole in the ground. You could've snoozed all you wanted, stuffed yourself with fungus or whatever crap you ate and had a big daddy Overseer to keep you safe. But you didn't. So deal with it, arsehole. I want to see you checking three sixty degrees, one hundred percent of the time." With a snort. "_Afraid?_ Live your life like a rat in a sewer, and you're scared of the dark? I oughta whip your hide, you cowardly piece of shit …"

A surge of fury rose in Arta's breast. "How dare you speak to me like that, you son of a bitch!"

"Now that's more like it!" Her anger quietened as she realised what he'd been doing. In a different tone, he continued: "Look, I'll tell you something else. You've done better, a lot better than I expected. I thought you'd either be dead or plain up the wall crazy. And I still ain't sure about the last one …" he caught her with a grin "but … don't lose it all now." He pointed to the southeast. "See that line of big chimneys sticking up? That's an old power station. If we get there, I know somewhere we oughta be able to hole up. Oh, and one more thing."

Arta felt the keen edge of the long, flat object he handed her, and thrilled. "A lawnmower blade?"

"That's right. Better hope that Wasteland tramp don't miss it."

_So that's three pieces assembled, _she thought. _And three … chimneys. And three sixty degrees. And … keep going. Just a little bit further …_

* * *

The triple funnels of the MDPL-13 PowerStation were an impressive sight, the rays of early morning sunshine infusing the pale cream of the smooth shafts with a yellowish tinge, seeming to rise even higher from their position atop the hill. Looking back Arta thought that they would be visible for miles in the direction they were heading. Especially across the wide, open plain they were about to traverse.

The night had been spent in a utility room nearby. Jericho had opined that the station itself was too large and 'just the sort of place to have a whole bunch of nasty surprises.' The room had contained the usual miscellany of junk, a safe, which Arta had struggled unsuccessfully with, and a workbench, which might've been useful for assembling her _Shishkebab_, had all the items been available. Instead she'd found an old document with details of how to make something called a _Railway Rifle_. She wasn't impressed.

"A gun that fires railway spikes," she sniffed. "What's the use of that? And all the components are bulky. It must weigh a ton."

"Cheap ammunition if you find a railway yard, I guess. But I agree, it sounds shit. Keep it and sell it to some sucker."

From their high position, they could overlook the plain to the east as it stretched across to the next ridge.

"Do we have to cross?"

"Yeah, otherwise it's a long diversion which could be more dangerous."

Arta glanced to the southwest. "Why not take a look at that nearby settlement?" She indicated a cluster of buildings nestling not far below the hill. "We might find something useful there, even a handbrake."

"We might get our fucking legs blown off is why. That's Minefield. The name says it all. For some reason there's scores of mines laid everywhere. It's one of the places Moira keeps getting nubes like you to check out for her stupid Wasteland Guide. So far I ain't noticed any come back, at least not with all their limbs."

Arta decided not to bridle at his belittling reference, and turned her attention back east, scanning the plain with her sniper lens. "There's one of those red rockets. We could use it as a landmark to make sure we're going in a straight line." She lowered the gun frowning. Next to the rocket, she'd thought she'd seen someone sitting on a kind of chair. But she must've imagined it.

* * *

"I am the Radroach King," the man said. "And you have slain my subjects, the penalty for which is death."

The King's throne consisted of a simple chair, flanked by fire hydrants and rubber tyres, the whole assemblage trapped between the fins of a hollow red rocket from a child's playground. It stood on a barren hillock, in the midst of an expanse of sandy plain empty of life except for a few radroaches shaking their wing cases angrily. Several crushed members of the species lay amongst them.

"Before you kill me," Arta said, "I've a poem you might like to hear. It's about a king."

"Tell it then," the Radroach King answered gravely. His eyes were startlingly pale, as though the desert sun had turned them so. His thick red hair and beard were choked with dust and on his brow was the horned helmet called '_Psycho Tic'_ by the Raiders. Otherwise he wore the ragged gear of any Wasteland outcast. The casing of the ancient minigun trained upon Arta was scarred as though by innumerable sand storms.

She began,

"_I met a traveller from an antique land_

_Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone_

_Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,_

_Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown_

_And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command_

_Tell that its sculptor well those passions read_

_Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,_

_The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed."_

As she finished the line, the Radroach King started the next one, solemnly chanting the words as though they were written on his heart.

"_And on the pedestal these words appear:_

'_My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,_

_Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'"_

But where the verse preserved in the ruined book ended, he continued:

"_Nothing beside remains. Round the decay_

_Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,_

_The lone and level sands stretch far away."_

A single tear ran down Arta's cheek.

"You weep," the King observed. "Yet know you not that all things must end and return to the star stuff of which they are made?"

Before Arta could reply, Jericho strode swiftly and silently from behind the throne and, raising his sword, struck off the King's head with a single stroke. It lay there in the dust at his feet.

* * *

_Where does the road go? _Arta thought wearily. _On and on, around the cliffs and under the road bridge. Maybe it goes nowhere._

But perhaps after all it went somewhere. Not far past the bridge, standing isolate, was one of the largest intact buildings she'd seen outside Megaton and Paradise Falls, with fully three floors remaining, its lower walls unbroken.

Pointing she said, "That looks like it might be inhabited."

"I think you're right. C'mon then." Jericho stalked away, and Arta followed, a little puzzled. He was usually far more cautious than this. Shouldn't they at least take a good look around first?

In the event they came right beneath the sun-kissed white walls before being challenged. Then there was the sound of a rifle bolt slamming and a woman's voice.

"Hold it right there stranger. What's your business here?"

A dark-haired, sallow skinned woman was looking down on them from a ruined window, holding an assault rifle. Her face, like her tone, showed suspicion. Her features were attractive without being conventionally beautiful. Her hair, like Clover's, was parted and swept across, the other side of her scalp partially shaved.

Arta tried to sound friendly, despite the woman's discouraging mien. "We're travellers who would appreciate a place to rest, and maybe trade. We mean no harm."

"Okay, I'm coming down, but don't make any sudden moves."

In front of them was a gate with metal bars. After a short delay, the woman appeared behind it. She wore light quilted mercenary armour and a kerchief at her throat. Covering them with the rifle, she unlocked the gate and swung it open.

"Hannibal says I have to let folks like you inside. That doesn't mean I have to like it. Remember I've got my eye on you."

A little riled by the woman's attitude, Arta asked, "Who are you, and what is this place?"

"I'm Simone Cameron, and I shoot people that get too nosy. If you want to know more, you'll have to talk to Hannibal."

_And get shot if we're too nosy? _She looked to Jericho for support.

He said, "Where's this guy? We'll hear him out."

"First floor. He's the one with the black beard and the recon armour."

Watched by Simone, they mounted the stairs next to the gate. The top two stories were both largely roofless; the second floor mostly jagged remains running close to the walls. The first was broad and spacious, with several partitions. A brazier had been set up in the centre, but the most unusual feature was a plinth upon which rested the broken-off head of a statue. The effigy was of a bearded man whose prominent, craggy features exuded a strong aura of nobility: a high-bridged nose, well-defined cheekbones and eyes that seemed turned up in the contemplation of some ineffable truth.

Directly in front of the pedestal stood a man with a hunting rifle. He wore unusual armour of a light, synthetic material which Arta guessed was designed to aid concealment, perhaps by maximising flexibility and minimising noise. His black beard and hair were full and bushy, his pupils wide and mobile, his skin nut brown. Though he seemed only a little younger than Jericho in age, the impression he made on Arta was completely different. There was an openness about him, and yet a vulnerability which was a million miles away from Jericho's sturdy but prickly air of indomitability.

This sense of fragility was reinforced as he spoke in a tone that was gentle, with a hint of emotional fervour. Arta felt that she was listening to the plaintive voice of a child in need of reassurance and comfort.

"I'm not going to ask you who you are; for the moment, I don't care. What I'm concerned about is that you should keep the secret of this place from those who would destroy it."

Arta said, "We can't betray your secrets because we don't know anything about where we are. We'll leave if you prefer."

"No, I can't risk that. This is the Temple of the Union."

Arta exclaimed, "I've heard about this place after all! A runaway slave called Mei Wong wanted to come here for refuge."

"Yes. We are all escaped slaves. My name is Hannibal Hamlin. I founded the Union. We give help and advice to those like ourselves. That's why I need your solemn pledge you won't reveal our location, especially not to anyone connected to the slavers of Paradise Falls. Until then, I cannot allow you to leave."

_Solemn pledge? _Arta and Jericho exchanged glances. Both were thinking the same: _Is this guy for real?_

Arta considered Hannibal. He was quite clearly serious. And Jericho was looking to her as the spokeswoman for them both.

Slowly, feeling as though this were some childish game, she recited: "We pledge ourselves to protect the secrecy of the Temple of the Union."

Hannibal's face brightened. Enthusiastically he exclaimed, "Welcome sister! Welcome brother! You are now free to come and go. As a token of our trust, we present you with a key to the Temple Gate."

_Is he insane? _Arta thought. _Or is it the rest of the world that's crazy?_

Prompted by a nagging sense of familiarity, she said, "Can I ask you about that stone head? Somewhere I've seen something like it."

Hannibal smiled. "Why that's a statue of the Great Emancipator himself. Centuries before the War he freed all the slaves. His name was Abraham Lincoln."

* * *

*Fans of Clover that are still reading will hopefully be happy that I managed to get her into the story. Albeit at the expense of something of a diversion. Originally I doubted she would gel with Arta, thinking that she'd hardly get on with an evil psycho. But now I've experience of her as a companion, I've realised she's actually quite fun to be with!

I've not got quite as far with the story as I wanted. I'd like to have left it on a cliff hanger. So that means the next chapter should be pretty exciting.*


	23. L'epee de flamme

Ch 23 L'epee de flamme

"From this design," Caleb Smith said, "you could forge a sword fit for a hero."

"Or a heroine." Arta reminded him.

"Indeed." Caleb grinned, his teeth showing white against the patina of sweat and dirt that darkened his face even more than its natural colour. "And a modest one at that!"

Arta smiled back at him. _At least one of them has a sense of humour, _she thought. _As well as being impressively muscular and handsome. _She said, "Modest or not, I still need that final component."

Caleb ran a hand over his immaculately shaved scalp. "I'm sure I put it here somewhere."

"Along with your head?" Rather to Arta's surprise, Simone Cameron had caught the lighter mood. "Want any help finding either of them?"

"No, it's crowded enough already, you'd just get in the way."

The storeroom was certainly quite small, ill lit and full of teetering shelves and mouldering boxes.

Simone gave him a wink. "In that case, perhaps I'd best leave you two together. If you do somehow find what you're looking for, we'll happily trade it for assault rifle parts and ammo." To Arta she said, "If you'd been contemplating robbing us, you only need to look in here to see it's hardly worthwhile. This is a democracy without its arsenal. Nothing but a few spare rifle magazines. No combat drugs either, unless you count booze and mentats. Caleb probably fights better when he's drunk, and his brain certainly needs all the help it can get." She pushed open the door and went outside.

Caleb gave a good-humoured snort, the whites of his eyes gleaming behind his artisan's goggles. "See her bark and her bite are just about equal." He started to root through the boxes. "But she's right about this place. There's more junk than high quality ordnance."

Arta could easily believe him. After her visits to Megaton, Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast and Paradise Falls, she'd been shocked at how poorly armed and equipped the slaves' collective was. Simone and Hannibal had assault and hunting rifles combined with decent armour, but that was about as good as it got. Caleb, a man heavy set and strong, valued for his skills of craftsmanship and repair, was clad in high quality leather; however the sledgehammer he preferred to wield was useful only at close quarters. Of the three remaining Temple members, one was a scholar, one an arthritic and possibly semi-senile old man, and the other was a dog. None of the trio, including the canine, had any protection other than normal clothing, their hides and a couple of cheap pistols.

Arta had shuddered at the thought of them trying to defend themselves against an attack from slavers armed with Chinese assault rifles, grenades and shotguns, and perhaps even heavier weapons. They would either be butchered or dragged back to the Falls. No wonder that Hannibal feared discovery. However his naïve belief in the integrity of visitors who pledged their allegiance seemed to give that terrible event the appearance of inevitability. _These people are doomed, _she'd thought.

Jericho had agreed, and told Hannibal so quite bluntly. "Sorry to rain on your parade, _compadre_, but the days of this 'temple' of yours are numbered. Even a small band of slavers could storm it without breaking a sweat. Staying completely hidden is the only chance to save your arses. Go someplace else."

Hannibal had shaken his head and smiled. "Then we would be unable to provide aid to those slaves who come to us, which is one of the main purposes of the Union. And our supply situation could become critical. At least the caravans pass here from their base at Canterbury Commons nearby. But don't worry, I have a plan. The great Lincoln's head will be restored and turned into a shining beacon of hope for all slaves."

Arta had discussed Hannibal's 'plan' with Simone Cameron. An ex-mercenary who'd spent seven months in slavery before escaping, her tough cynicism was, depending on your viewpoint, either a useful complement to Hannibal's visionary genius or a slight counter balance to his unrealistic optimism. Arta was convinced it was the latter.

"It's complete suicide," she'd told Simone. "A rag-tag bunch of poorly equipped ex-slaves travelling so far across the Wastes, and then into the heart of DC. With baggage and brahmin, your chances of making it are almost nil. I've only been out of the Vault for a short time, and even I can see this."

Simone had frowned, her moody hazel eyes squinting against the sunlight glistening like pale gold on her skin. "We might pick up supplies and weapons on the way," she said. "I'd like to go foraging for them right now, but I can't leave this place for long. And we live mostly by hunting, so we never have much to trade with."

Hannibal Hamlin had been a slave for twenty-three long years, since he was a boy of fourteen. Arta could imagine how, after finally escaping, it must have seemed to him miraculous and a sign of manifest destiny that he should discover the broken head of Lincoln within the walls of this isolated ruin. He had been inspired against all the odds to found the Temple of the Union. While she could empathise with the pursuit of a dream, even if it seemed difficult or nearly impossible, she felt frustration at Hannibal's apparent failure to take practical and realistic steps towards its fulfilment

"But why go to the centre of DC?" she'd asked. "By all accounts it's like a war zone there. You could find somewhere safer that would accommodate more former slaves, then build up your strength and defences."

Simone had shaken her head doggedly. "Because that's where Lincoln's Memorial is. By reattaching his head, we'll be an inspiration to slaves everywhere. They'll flock to our banner, and we can finally turn the tide and fight back against those bastards."

"I know that's what Hannibal says. Do you really think it'll happen?"

Simone had given her a grim look. "I have to believe it will," she said,

_Even she clings to Hannibal's dream, _Arta thought. _And I understand how she feels._

Now as Caleb searched the room, making exclamations of annoyance and surprise, she asked him, "Are you sold on this crazy scheme to rebuild Lincoln's statue?"

His breathing became heavier. "Sold? There's no chance of it working without my help. Amongst other things, my master taught me masonry. I hope to reattach Lincoln's head myself. That is, if I can find a suitable model to work from."

"And I suppose you'll just find one lying around!" Arta scoffed.

He pushed up his goggles to look into her eyes. His own were clear and gentle. "No, but the Museum of History is close to Lincoln's Memorial. I would expect to find some historical records there."

"Sure, sure, why don't you take the full guided tour? The supermutants'll be delighted to show you round." Jericho had entered the store unexpectedly, and Arta gave a guilty start. Not that she'd been doing anything compromising, but ...

Caleb was unruffled. "You make a joke at our expense. But from what I've heard, your own mission involves you in the same kind of supposed folly."

Jericho glanced irritably at Arta. "Well you shouldn't believe every piece of crap you hear. And in any case, it's our fucking business."

Caleb smiled. "Perhaps. Nevertheless should you be heading in the same general direction, an opportunity exists for us to team up. You have the caps and equipment, we've got the manpower. I'm surprised Hannibal hasn't already suggested it."

"Now you've gotta be joking! You think this shower of deadbeats …" Jericho waved a hand contemptuously " … adds up to some kind of credible military force. Only if the muties die laughing when they see it."

Arta said, "Wait a moment, Jericho, we shouldn't reject their help out of hand."

"Help? It's gonna be us that's fucking helping!"

Caleb said calmly, "Call it mutual assistance, if you like. Come, my friend, Simone is hardly an amateur at this game, and Hannibal is tougher than he looks and speaks. As a matter of fact, I've acquired skill in certain heavy weapons. Though from an episode in my life I now consider shameful." He unfastened his leather armour to expose a tattoo across his chest.

Jericho's countenance changed. "The Black Scorpion," he said quietly. "You're Bethesda clan."

"I was. When I first escaped, they took me in. Naturally I had to learn their ways. But as soon as I heard about this place, I left. Hannibal knew about my past, but he never held it against me."

Arta said, "We're not going to either." To Jericho she said, "I think we should consider Caleb's proposition."

For once she couldn't read his expression. After a pause he said, "We'll talk about it later."

Caleb had turned back to his search. Stooping down he gave a sudden exclamation, "Aha, I thought so! Here it is." He held up a metal object.

"A motorcycle handbrake!" Arta beamed. "Now we can make the _Shishkebab_; that is, if you've the facilities."

Caleb said, stroking his long goatee beard, "More than that, I would consider it an honour if you would allow me to construct it for you. As far as I have a profession, I'm a craftsman."

Jericho began, "That's okay we can …" But Arta interrupted him.

"No," she said. "On the contrary, it would be an honour for me to have a _Master _Craftsman perform the work. Here are the other components you'll need. And I'll download and print the schematic."

Caleb came forward to take the items. His hands felt strong, warm and dextrous as they touched hers.

With a slight bow, he said, "I will forge a sword for you, my lady, of such enduring quality that it's fame will spread with your own throughout the Wastes

Feeling like a storybook princess, Arta curtseyed in return, and Jericho muttered, "Glory! Hallelujah!"

* * *

"I doubt it'll take him more than an hour or two," Arta said. They were standing near an elegantly carved block, inscribed with the name of the Union by Caleb himself, watching as he went about his work with a studied calm, sharpening the blade and drilling the channels through which the fuel would be supplied to ignite the sword. "They'll still be plenty of daylight left for us to move on."

Jericho shrugged. "No worries, we can stay the night. You'd like to, wouldn't you?" he observed.

"You're not concerned about Walsh catching up with us?"

"If he does, at least we've got some meat shields for him to target first."

It was a typical cynical Jericho statement, but Arta was still surprised at his seemingly casual attitude. She had thought he'd wanted to avoid a confrontation with Walsh if at all possible.

Trying to assess his mood, she asked, "Does that mean you're coming round to my view that we should team up with them?"

He looked down. "Maybe."

"Well, okay, for one night at least. Then we'll see if they're prepared to give us any real help."

It was true that she wanted to stay a while. In spite of her worries, she found the atmosphere pleasant enough. Some of the Union members might be naïve but they were still likeable, especially Caleb and a young Hispanic woman named Alejandra Torres, the Temple's historian. Still retaining much of the prettiness and charm which must have made her a highly valued slave, she was friendly and frank in talking about her past. Like Silver she'd been sexually exploited by her master, but he was tolerant enough to allow her to study and even to teach her. She too had been offered for sale when he married, although with a happier outcome than Silver. She'd been bought by Hannibal and brought into the Union.

Not surprisingly, Alejandra was particularly interested in studying the life of Abraham Lincoln, with a viewpoint naturally coloured by her own experiences.

"He was a great man, Arta, a true humanitarian and moralist."

"That may be so." Arta tried to think how she could tactfully pass on the information she'd learnt about Lincoln in the Vault. "But he also knew about the realities of fighting a war. He was prepared to suspend some human rights and suppress dissent for the duration of the conflict. That's an important lesson for you in your struggle against the slavers. I mean that you have to be practical and ruthless if necessary."

"Oh," Alejandra looked a little downcast. "Your Vault histories seem somewhat different from ours. I hadn't heard about that. But perhaps you're right. As long as we don't end up committing the same evils as our opponents, of course."

_If Lincoln was alive today, I think he'd prove a more effective leader than Hannibal. I wonder if Alejandra will begin to see that._

Arta watched as the Temple members gathered together after their noon meal to hear Hannibal speak, variously standing or squatting, trying to find little patches of shade amidst the broken building supports. The scorching sun had heated the rough stone to an almost baking temperature, making it necessary to avoid touching it with bare skin. The dog Fourscore sat panting and lolling its tongue next to Caleb for whom it seemed to have a particular affection. The old man Bill Seward bustled about distributing water, which was drunk thirstily by everyone even though it was irradiated. Alejandra Torres had pen and paper to meticulously take notes, watching Hannibal with the rapt gaze of a young child. And Simone Cameron continued to patrol the wall nearest the gate, looking out through the gaps, while giving part of her attention to the speech.

When all were settled, Hannibal took up a position standing next to the broken head, cleared his throat and began. He did not raise his voice, or wave his hands. He spoke simply in a well modulated but ringing tone that built slowly in intensity as he outlined his vision of the future.

"I believe that the day will come when all slaves will be free, not only from bondage, but from the fear of bondage. Together they will join in a brotherhood and sisterhood, not of steel, but of peace, justice and friendship. A peace that will embrace every thinking creature on this planet, even ghoul and mutant kind."

"Good fucking luck with that one." This came from Jericho, lazing unconcernedly in the hot sun, lying back on a broken slab with a tattered book perched on his balding head to shade it. "I bet they'll all be lining up to visit you for dinner!"

With a slight smile, Hannibal waited patiently for the interruption to end. Then he continued: "Some may find our chosen path unrealistic. But we have already formed just such an understanding amongst ourselves, despite the difficulties. From the diversity of our backgrounds, we have forged this Union, built on the harmonious joining of our different skills and abilities. This is not merely good fortune, but the result of determination, self-belief and tolerance."

Hannibal paused again, perhaps to demonstrate that Jericho had no answer to his rhetoric. As he drew to a conclusion, his voice attained a force and a conviction which Arta couldn't help but find impressive.

"Why do I believe that in the end we can attain this dream, that we can triumph? Because of the spirit of humankind, which refuses to bow to control, which strives to overcome the most difficult of obstacles. If we have faith in ourselves, and make the most of the opportunities presented to us, then anything is possible. I give to you the words of an ancient dramatist rediscovered by our historian, Alejandra:

'_There is a tide in the affairs of man, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune … we must take the current when it serves.'_

We are faced with such a moment, and we must seize it with boldness and resolution. In such a way as the great Lincoln himself would have acted."

Arta listening to this felt that Hannibal was speaking directly to her. That he was urging her on towards a destiny which, though currently unknown, was something she and only she could achieve, should she so choose. And the crisis point for this decision was fast approaching.

_Is helping Hannibal part of it? _There would seem to be a logic in that, and yet something deep within her told her it was not. _Then what is it that I'm supposed to do?_

* * *

Sunset was red, with a purple twilight to follow. The broken rubble of collapsed buildings nearby the Union took on an ominous look in the wine coloured half-light, as though the source of hidden dangers, and an eerie quiet stole over the darkening plains to the north and east.

Standing together with Jericho near Lincoln's head on the first floor of the building, Arta was practicing with her newly made sword. She followed the movements he was making with White Storm: cuts and thrusts and reversals, slowed down to make imitation easier. Although there was strictly no need, she could not resist pressing the handbrake which served as a trigger, sending fuel from the reserve in the motorcycle tank to set the blade alight, the flames swooshing through a broad arc in the dimness, leaving sparks trailing like a comet's tail.

A short distance away, most of the Union members had gathered around the central brazier, and were watching the dual swordplay in fascination, Caleb with an undisguised pride. Arta felt a secret pleasure at the attention, especially from him. She remembered his words on handing her the completed sword.

"_I believe this is the best and strongest weapon I've made. Perhaps I will never make a finer. If you should come face to face with Death on your journey, Death will take a wound._"

The practice over, they were invited to sit around the fire with the other Union members, sharing food and stories. In a creaking voice, Bill Seward told the sad tale of how he'd accidentally killed his master's little girl, and been forced to flee, as he knew his explanation would never be believed. When encouraged to speak, Jericho declined, saying that he had no stories to tell that anyone would enjoy hearing. Arta was left to take up the mantle of narrator on their behalf. She gave an abbreviated and much sanitised version of her adventures since leaving the Vault, leaving out most of the sex and saying nothing about the murder of the scavenger or Paradise Falls. Even so by the time she'd finished the stars were shining brightly, the moon had risen, and some of the audience were yawning. They seemed to find most interest hearing about Mei Wong, although Arta had carefully omitted to mention the attempted rescue of Silver. No one was able to give any news of Mei in return. Arta couldn't help but think that had she reached Rivet City, she would be safer there.

One by one, the Union members drifted away to their sleeping quarters, leaving only Hannibal to mount guard. Before going to bed, Alejandra came to speak with Arta, saying she wanted to record the whole of the poem _Ozymandias_. But then she added, "You know when I saw you practicing, I was reminded of a story from the Bible. The one where God set an angel with a flaming sword to guard Eden, which turned every way to bar the path to the Tree of Life. Like your poem, it made me feel sad." Before Arta could comment, she walked away with bowed shoulders.

As they prepared to rest in a room open to the sky, Arta said sleepily to Jericho, "The people here are like no others that I've met in the Wastes, or even in the Vault. I wish that we could stay with them for a while." She yawned and shut her eyes.

* * *

Arta stood again on the high place from which her mother had fallen. But all of the Wasteland was covered in darkness, and beside her was a figure in a black robe, the deep cowl of the hood concealing the face and form of the wearer.

"Have you brought the sword?" The voice was thin, sibilant; the words part mumbled, part hissed. Something in the intonation of them sounded familiar.

Arta realised that there was a belt and sheath at her waist, and reached down to draw forth the blade. As she held it up before her, she saw that it was no sword of metal, but a plume of living fire, which blazed from her hand like a burning brand.

"Good. Excellent! Humanity must pay for its sins, thrice and thrice over. You will be the instrument of that vengeance."

Arta stared fascinated into the rushing flames. She said, "No."

"You cannot escape your destiny. It is in your very name," the dead voice hissed.

"My name is … Arta."

"That is not your true name. Tell it to me."

"No, my name is Arta."

"Speak your name!"

"It's Arta, Arta, Arta!" She swung the fiery sword and the cloak with its hood roared up in flame. The figure gave a high wailing scream, and raised its arms. From the sleeves flapping in the inferno protruded white fingers of bone.

Arta woke in darkness. A chill flow of air passed over her body, like a draft from a tomb. Jericho was lying next to her, muttering in his sleep.

Arta made as if to rouse him, then thought better of it. The day had been long. She slept again.

A small nubbin of a nose nestled against her ear, rubbing it erotically, so that she could both feel and hear the soft breaths of the one whose face was close behind hers. A trail of gentle kisses followed the line of her jaw, and she became aware that the insistent nose and warm lips seeking to brush against hers were Clover's, the gaze of the wide blue eyes having a kind of sly innocence. Arta let out a sigh, and allowed herself to savour the sensations, feeling the swell of pleasure rising straight from her centre to stimulate the flow of wetness between her thighs.

Even as she began to respond to the delicate but wildly arousing touches, she felt a hot breath on the back of her neck and another pair of lips begin to place burning kisses on the nape. The lovemaking of the new person was rather less subtle, and soon sharp teeth were taking little nips at her throat and the lobes of her ears. A pair of strong arms encircled her, hands moving straight to scrunch her breasts, fingers grabbing and pulling her hardening nipples painfully but delightfully.

"I do so love to play with a new toy," murmured a familiar voice, and Arta was unsurprised to feel the smoothness of a shaved scalp glide against her cheek. She only needed to turn a little to meet the hard, mocking glance of Carolina Red.

"We meet again, little girl." Arta moaned and arched her back as Carolina unceremoniously slid a hand downwards past the cleft of her buttocks, curling her fingers between the thighs. "You like that, don't you? But don't think you're gonna burn me, the way you did Mara. Better watch yourself Clover; this black widow takes the heads off those she mates with."

Arta jerked abruptly awake for the second time. The tingling and the moisture were real; the rest was the stuff of fading dreams. She was wide-awake and intensely aware of her surroundings. Something about them had changed. The urge to stimulate herself diminished and was replaced by a growing sense of unease. She listened … and heard nothing. Neither the echo of Hannibal's footsteps as he patrolled, nor Jericho's heavy breathing nearby. When she turned to look, he wasn't beside her. She listened again.

Silence ... but not quite. Very faint noises that began and stopped; that might be the sound of someone moving extremely stealthily. Perhaps more than one person. They were outside the room.

Arta felt for where she'd left her weapons. They weren't there. Her combat armour, however, was still close by. She opened the secret pocket she'd designed herself, using touch rather than sight, and took out Nova's silenced pistol, a combat knife, a spare clip of ammunition and a clear plastic case containing several hypodermics and a pill bottle. Tucking the latter items into her panties, and placing the dagger between her teeth, she began to crawl towards the nearest wall, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible.

Once there, she rose into a squatting position and put her back against the wall. Then she opened the case and plunged one of the hypodermics into her arm, chewed and swallowed a blue pill. The surge of the Jet sped the beating of a heart that was already pounding, and extra energy poured into her muscles from the Buffout.

She drew the pistol and waited. Eventually they would have to come into the room to get her. Hopefully they wouldn't be expecting her to be where she was.

Time passed and the stars glimmered. Once Arta thought she heard something like a stifled cry from somewhere outside. She remained as silent and unmoving as she could.

From the doorway a clot of blackness moved, darker than the surrounding darkness. It was the figure of a man, moving in a crouch. He stopped, then continued slowly forward.

Arta considered, and reluctantly thrust the pistol into her panties. A shot in the dark would be too uncertain. She switched the knife to her right hand, holding it in a reversed grip with her thumb on the end of the handle.

The man had almost reached the centre of the room, and was facing away from her. She began to move towards him as quickly as maintaining stealth would allow. It would not be long before he realised the mattresses were unoccupied.

She would never know whether he'd sensed her approach in time for a final chance to contemplate his probably misspent life. Following Jericho's suggestions for dealing with sentries, she clapped one hand around his mouth to stifle an outcry and stabbed downwards and sideways into the neck. She could feel the spray of blood, and heard the faintest muffled choking. He convulsed and struggled briefly, then his head nodded slackly.

It was hard not to let out a long breath. She smelt leather and whisky and another odour that might be blood. For a heartbeat she considered dragging the body away, decided it would be too noisy, and allowed it to slump. She prepared to move back to the wall.

Some instinct made her look upwards. From above a black shape was descending, blotting out the stars.

The next instant, a hard body struck her. The impact was sufficiently stunning to drive the breath from her body and the shock enough to make her drop the knife. Her attacker felt extremely strong, and immediately moved to pin her down. Even with the enhanced vigour of the drugs upon her, she was unable to break free. The sharp edge of a blade was pressed to her throat.

"Don't move, and don't try to scream. They'll be plenty of time for wriggling and screaming later."

Even whispering, the voice was quite unmistakable because it had invaded her dreams before. She kept very still.

"That's right, little girl, nice and easy." Her captor gave a throaty chuckle. "You didn't expect me to come a huntin' for you, did you? What Carolina hunts for, Carolina finds. What Carolina wants, Carolina gets. Now turn over, put your hands behind your back."

She complied, and was efficiently manacled, then painfully jerked upwards onto her feet. Carolina Red stood so close she could feel her breath.

"Well isn't this peachy?" The slaver slid a hand into Arta's panties, removed the pistol and ammunition. "What an interesting place to keep things." She leaned closer, stuck out her tongue, and took a long lick from the bottom to the top of Arta's cheek. "Yummy, yum, yum! Nothing like the taste of fresh meat."

* * *

Nova gave a faint moan, and turned over in her bed, brushing her cheek against the rough pillow and wriggling to get more comfortable. Her toes felt a little cold, and she withdrew them further under the blanket. Half opening her eyelids, she could see it was still dark. She closed them again. No need to get up for a long time yet. She normally slept through most of the morning anyway; in her kind of job it was necessary. There were seldom any clients at that time, but they could often keep her up late at night. Thankfully tonight she'd managed to get to sleep earlier than usual. She valued her slumber time as a relief from the unpleasant realities of her existence, her dreams providing an escape from the prison that _Moriarty's _had become.

She hugged the pillow and fell into a half-dream, directed in part by her conscious desires, making it seem the fulfilment of one of her dearest wishes.

Colin Moriarty stood against the wall of the _Brass Lantern_, in the position where Jenny Stahl was often to be found. However he was blindfolded and his hands tied. Several paper targets had been pinned to his body: on the forehead, heart, and an especially large one over his groin. A firing squad consisting of Lucas Simms, Jericho and Billy Creel were lined up and ready. Gob, dressed in a smart white suit and elegant pointed shoes, appeared with a box of cigarettes, popping one into Moriarty's mouth and lighting it up for him. Nearby Maggie and Harden began a drum roll. Nova, resplendent in a silky red dress, brought the squad to attention, basked in the moment and called, "Ready, aim, FIRE!"

"_Nova." _She blinked, still half in the dream world, thinking she could still hear the rattle of the drums and the crack of rifle shots. Instead she heard someone's heavy breathing, and then completely unexpectedly, the touch of someone's lips on hers. Her eyes shot open.

A dark figure loomed above her. For a moment, she was unable to recognise him, then remembered the occasions she'd seen him without sunglasses.

"Sam?" she asked muzzily. She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, and encountered a different taste. Not that of the Wastes but something more refined. She sat up. He turned slightly away from her.

"I saw you lying there. You looked so beautiful, and so I …" he left the sentence unfinished.

Nova inspected him carefully. This was not the Sam Walsh she knew: the chillingly well-spoken, emotionless killer who was Colin Moriarty's principle weapon of terror. Not that he'd been someone she'd feared directly; there was no need so long as she made no open moves against her employer. He'd even employed her services in the past, in a desultory and mechanical fashion. But there was something different about his manner, and even his appearance had changed.

Reaching out, she ran a smooth hand down his cheek. He'd shaved, quite recently. She moved closer, and smelt his collar, knowing as she did so that it was a womanly thing to do, and definitely provocative. A strong musky aroma came to her nostrils. Scent like that was rare these days, and the Wasteland assassin about the last person she would expect to be wearing it.

Before she could question him, he turned abruptly and began to kiss her again. She allowed him to continue, though she would normally have asked for payment at this point. There was an intensity about him that warned her it would be unwise to do so. He reached out to touch her hair. The coppery curls had been a source of fascination, ever since she'd been a small girl. _'Such pretty green eyes and red hair!'_ A prettiness that had only led to bondage. Still being desired was better than being unwanted by anyone.

His hands were moving over her, already sliding beneath her underwear. This was far from the disinterested groping she recalled from previous couplings. In her mind, Nova could usually divide her customers into groups. Walsh was able to afford her very expensive services on a regular basis. For people like him, being able to bed Megaton's most renowned and beautiful whore was a mark of their success, a trophy of wealth and power. No matter if the actual experience cloyed after a while, as it usually did, for Nova seldom found such clients in any way stimulating. Indeed they were the ones most likely to abuse her.

Amongst those for whom her services were a rare or a once in a lifetime treat, she more frequently found someone of interest, who made her feel special, and might even give her pleasure. Men like Jericho, for example, seemed to show her genuine affection. _At least_ _he did before he became obsessed with that Vault girl, _she thought sourly.

Walsh had certainly not fallen into that category until today. Now, as he began to passionately kiss her breasts, she considered what could have occurred to change his attitude to her. He was getting her ready with a finesse that was surprising, and she wondered whether he'd be able to make her come. It was a secret she kept very close. It was generally assumed that she faked orgasm, and this was nearly always true. But just occasionally, when someone pushed exactly the right buttons as Walsh was doing now …

And so she was quite taken aback when he firmly turned her around and pushed her down onto the bed, with the obvious intention of entering her from behind. Not that there was anything particularly unusual or wrong with this position, or that he was being particularly violent. But she had hoped that the 'new' Sam Walsh might want to continue to face her, to look into her eyes.

As it was, his entrance was smooth, swiftly building up a steady rhythm and a pleasing friction which made her squirm delightfully, arching her back, pushing up her buttocks. _If he keeps this up …_

He was breathing heavily now, as he approached his climax. As though against his will, a groan issued from his lips.

"_Susan!"_

And so much was explained, but Nova was too far gone to care, her moans muffled by the pillow as she gripped it tightly, her sex pulsing with pleasure, pleasure she'd stolen from an unknown woman. Walsh withdrew from her as she came, jetting thick white seminal fluid over her back.

They were both left gasping with exertion and relief. Walsh collapsed onto the bed, and eventually Nova turned around to face him. She could tell from the change in his expression that he'd at least temporarily exorcised whatever demons were haunting him. Normal service had been resumed.

Brushing back a damp lock of hair from her face, she said, "Anything else I can do for you?"

"As it happens … perhaps there is." In the most casual manner possible, he added, "So how's Colin keeping?"

Nova grimaced. "Unfortunately the sadistic bastard's in the very best of health." She knew Walsh was well aware she bore no love for her employer.

He shook his head as though in sympathy. "And what about dear old Gob? I've not spoken with him for a while. Still decaying nicely?"

Nova turned to take a closer look at the assassin. What possible interest could he have in the ghoul? She said, "What d'you expect? Moriarty treats him like filth. He's miserable."

"What a shame." Nova could hear insincerity behind the pleasantly enunciated words, and something about the way Walsh smiled made her blood run cold.

* * *

The gate to the Temple of the Union was closed, yellow-orange torchlight reflecting off the bars. To the prisoners grouped together around the foundation stone bearing the name of the doomed collective, it appeared like a portal to hell beyond which lay as yet unknown terror, suffering and degradation. Bound, gagged and surrounded by slaver guards with guns and burning torches, escape seemed utterly impossible.

Every single member of the Temple had been captured, apparently without much of a fight. Even the dog Fourscore was chained up and muzzled, its tail down. Simone Cameron, judging by her bruises, had attempted some resistance, and remained silently furious. Of the rest, Bill and Alejandra looked terrified, Caleb resigned, Hannibal desperate, but none had been physically harmed. The only casualty on the slavers' side was the man Arta had killed.

_The attack must've come as a complete surprise, _she thought. _How … how has this happened? These slavers were in Paradise Falls only two days ago._ _Carolina, Ymir, Jotun … they're all here._ _And where's Jericho? _There was a silent wail in her mind. Was he … dead? Perhaps he'd heard a noise, picked up her sword and SMG and gone to investigate. And yet he could just as easily woken her, and taken his own weapons. Could one of the other temple members have been with him? It didn't make sense, but before her fear-filled mind could consider other possibilities, she was distracted by an argument breaking out between Carolina Red and Ymir.

"I'm getting bored of waiting with my thumb up my arse," the slaver woman was saying. "Why can't we play with them a little? That Vault bitch has got some payback coming for a start."

"Because it's against our orders," Ymir replied with exasperation, "which you heard as well as I did. No spoiling of the prisoners until …"

"Don't be such a _pussy. _You're ancestors were vicious raiders, and you talk about _obeying orders_ like a little boy. What d'you think Jotun? Are you spineless like your father, or are you gonna help me play with the pale, dark-haired one? I saw how you were looking at her."

Ymir exploded with rage. "You dare to make these humiliating suggestions in front of my boy! He will be a good son and follow his father's wise counsel."

Jotun said ponderously, "Father, you embarrass me by speaking in this way. I wish that you would both stop quarrelling all the time."

Carolina exclaimed, "The stone idol has a voice! At times I've wondered whether you've gotta a tongue in your head!"

Lowering his eyes, Jotun muttered, "I speak only when it's important for me to do so."

"Really? I think I prefer you when you're silent. Good enough for me." Addressing the fuming Ymir, she said, "I know Eulogy ain't gonna care what we do, especially not to this rabble."

"Oh yeah? Then why don't you tell him that yourself, darlin'."

A puckishly cheerful face was pressed to the bars of the gate, a mop of white blonde curls falling to the right, sly blue-violet eyes lit up with amusement as she observed Carolina's jaw drop slack.

"C'mon little pig, let me in before the big bad wolf blows your house down."

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Ymir bellowed, "Jotun!"

The lumbering youth made haste to unlock the door. As soon as he'd done so, Clover swung it open, pushing him backwards. Instead of her pink dress, she wore stylish light leather armour with a white t-shirt underneath, and she had swapped her shotgun for a Chinese assault rifle. Popping a sweet into her mouth, she swaggered through the gate. Once inside, she winked once in Arta's direction, then stood a pace to the right of the door, chewing vigorously, the rifle held across her body as though she were forming an honour guard of one.

There was a significant pause, before someone else crossed the threshold, a tall man in a long red coat. At his appearance something like an electric reaction passed amongst slavers and prisoners alike, a collective quivering.

"I've waited a long time for this," Eulogy Jones said, the torchlight glinting in his eyes. "And I've travelled far to be here tonight." He surveyed the scene and the expectant and fearful faces turned towards him. "Truth to tell, I'm a little disappointed." His eyes roved around the Temple of the Union, then rested briefly on each of the prisoners. "Disappointed to find such a pathetic rabble of enemies in such a pathetic hideout." With rising anger and contempt: "Disappointed that my lieutenants can't obey the simplest of my orders." Pointing directly at Arta, he snapped, "Why is she in bonds?"

There was an awkward silence, before Carolina Red answered sullenly, "She killed Chewy, and I had to restrain her for our safety and hers."

Jones raised his eyebrows and looked enquiringly at Ymir, who nodded reluctantly.

"Did it not occur to you to simply disarm her?" the slaver leader asked in serpent cold tones. "I will not have a _client _treated in this way." His voice lashed like a whip. "Set her loose! Your failure and insubordination are noted."

With the poorest possible grace, Red slunk behind Arta, pulled off the gag and removed her manacles. Rubbing her wrists, the Vault woman rose, trying to ignore the astonished and, in some cases, vicious looks from her former fellow captives.

Jones made a signal to Clover, "Get the others in here."

Before the bodyguard could comply, two more figures stepped into the circle of light. One was Crimson, dressed similarly to Clover, and armed with a combat shotgun. The second marched in step, wearing heavy combat armour, looking like a walking arsenal with sword, rifle and belts for grenades and ammunition.

It was Jericho.

Arta took a step forward, her mouth open. Struggling to speak, she gasped, "How … how could you? Betray all these people. Betray _me._"

Two heavily armed slavers followed Jericho through the gate, closing it behind him. He looked uneasily in her direction.

"I ain't betrayed you. Eulogy promised you wouldn't be harmed. That was part of the deal."

"Deal? There wasn't supposed to be a deal, remember?" She rubbed her forehead in confusion. "I don't understand … how it could've happened."

"It was pretty simple. Before I left the Falls, I told Eulogy the rumours you'd heard about the 'New Union' from Grandma Sparkle. She may've got the name wrong, but everything else was just about right. Eulogy already knew the real name of this place and where it was; it was a matter of putting two and two together. To seal the deal, I agreed to check it out, and let a sneak squad of slavers inside if need be. I didn't know the main man was on the way himself though." He nodded towards the prisoners. "As for them, they're nothing to me. Someone else would've blown this place wide open anyway. If you're still serious about this mission, then you've gotta realise we need help badly."

Eulogy Jones nodded. "And you shall get it. I promised you my bodyguard in return. She's yours." Addressing Clover, he said, "My dear, you are now free of my service. Artemesia is your new mistress."

Looking at him in near disbelief, Clover said haltingly, "Daddy, can it be true?"

"Indeed it is. It may be hard for you to manage without my fatherly guidance, but I'm sure you'll get used to it. Have fun you two. And now," the slaver leader's voice grew brisker. "I've other business to transact."

"B, but …" Arta realised it was not so much Jericho she'd misjudged as Eulogy Jones himself. In spite of all warnings, she'd completely underestimated his cunning, his sheer ruthlessness and, most of all, his determination to have his way.

Jones ignored her. "Let's see what these poor fools have to say for themselves. Ungag them." Slavers quickly obeyed his orders but, despite being free to speak, the prisoners maintained a silence that was stubborn or terrified according to the disposition of each. Jones walked along the line of them, stopped in front of Hannibal. "Who's the leader here?"

Hannibal was about to speak, when Simone Cameron pre-empted him. "It's me, Jones, you foul-breathed spawn of the devil!"

"Ah, Simone." Jones turned to her. "I remember you well. Now you've had a taste of what its like to be a slave, you perhaps regret that you rejected my very generous offer to join us."

"I'd rather be the most menial servant than a whore in your army of darkness!"

Jones shook his head. "Your attitude saddens me. In any case, I deny you your chance to be Spartacus. If you were the leader, I doubt if your cause would've been so swiftly lost. As it happens, I know _this_ is the would-be latter day Lincoln who has led you all to perdition." He spat in Hannibal's direction.

Taking his cue, Hannibal spoke up bravely. "You may think by killing me you've heard the last of Lincoln. In fact my life and the lives of these others aren't important. As long as even one slave dreams of freedom, the spirit of Lincoln will live on."

"A pretty speech which will mean nothing if I destroy every last trace of his memory!"

"Whatever you do, you cannot erase the knowledge that each of us is born free!"

"Pah!" Jones snarled. "I've heard quite enough of the delusions of this fuck-wit. I'll make sure he can't regale us with them any longer. Carolina, cut out his tongue!"

As the slaver made for Hannibal, her combat knife drawn and a sadistic grin on her face, Arta screamed, "_No!"_

Watching her with concern, Jericho protested, "Eulogy, you said there wouldn't be any killing or mutilation!"

Jones gave him a sceptical glance. "And you believed that? Not part of the deal, my friend. What I said was that I'd find a good use for every slave we captured. In the case of this jackass, I'll find a cage to hang him in near the entrance to Paradise Falls. There he can grow old demonstrating the futility of his cause."

Horrible gurgling screams came from Hannibal's throat. Arta turned away sickened. Alejandra had begun to sob.

Eulogy moved along the line, and took her by the chin, turning her tear-streaked face to the left and right. "With the captain of this ship of fools out of the way, we can dispose of most of the crew in quick order. You, my dear, will provide my loyal followers with 'entertainment' whenever they feel the urge and have the time. I might deign to occasionally sample the goods myself." He released her and stopped in front of Bill Seward. "And I can think of only one use for this old bag of bones. Ymir, throw him off the parapet. He can remind any future visitors of the fate of this 'Union'."

Arta joined with the cries of horror from the prisoners. "Please! Don't do this!"

Ymir strode forward to grab Bill. "Why don't I cut off his head?" he suggested jocularly. "And put it next to the one of Lincoln?"

"An excellent idea!" Jones said with approval. "This is more like the kind of initiative I expect in subordinates. It may even gain you a promotion. Throw him off first though. And make sure you smash up the head with your sledge. The other one, that is."

Arta couldn't watch as the old man was dragged away feebly moaning and protesting. After a short while there came a quavering scream and a sickening thud.

"As for the dog," Jones continued, "Jotun will prepare a barbeque. And now we come to the slightly more difficult cases." Addressing Caleb, he said, "You appear to be a fine, strong fellow. We happen to have a gap in our ranks. You could provide a shining example of someone who has recanted this liberationist nonsense to join our cause. A good piece of business."

Arta said, sobbing, "Caleb, please consider it. I don't want any more killings because of us. And I didn't mean this to happen."

Caleb said stonily, "You deceived us by not telling of your dealings with slavers. And you brought this man amongst us … " nodding towards Jericho "… and vouched for him. You're as guilty as he is. Alejandra had the right idea. The sword is cursed and you are an angel of death." To Jones he said, "Do your worst, and may god damn your soul and those of the traitors to burn in hell."

_You cannot escape your destiny. It is in your very name._

Jones shrugged. "Looks like you're joining Hannibal in that cage then. Unless you reconsider. And so finally to someone I hope will be more cooperative when she finally comes to her senses."

"Simone," he purred. "Why can't you see that you and I are just the same? As a mercenary you sold your services, so you should understand that what _I _do is strictly business, nothing more. You've no real allegiance to these dead beats. They took you in when you had nowhere else to go, but they've let you down. You're on the wrong side in the war, that's all. Join the right one, the one that's going to win, the one that has _already _won. I find myself in need of a new bodyguard. Prove your allegiance, and the job's yours."

Simone spat accurately in his direction. "No Eulogy, not if it means being your tame sex slave. I've already told you I'd rather die."

Wiping away the offensive liquid, Jones said unconcerned, "There are of course requirements of the job which I like to think of as perks. And I can hardly let my former enemy so close to my person without certain safeguards, such as a slave collar. Consider the alternative of a slow, painful and lingering death. You don't really want that, do you? It won't be like before; once at the Falls, there's no chance of escape."

Arta finally found her voice. She said, "You can keep your present bodyguard, Eulogy. I don't want to accept Clover as a blood price for these people. Why don't you let Simone and the others go?"

Jones began to laugh. "Really, my dear, the notion that I would go to all this trouble simply to let my foremost enemies walk away … " He gave another chuckle, then paused. "And yet you've given me an idea." He half-closed his eyes in thought. "Yes, _yes_, a deal that would be acceptable to both parties, something of a wager against fate."

Arta and Jericho exchanged glances, wondering what was coming.

Eulogy Jones said softly, "I promised you my most skilful bodyguard …" (Clover gave a smirk in Crimson's direction) "… and I'll keep my word. Simone you'll have the chance to fight with Clover for that honour. Should you win, you may leave with Artemesia and Jericho, who will stand guarantors of your future good conduct. Should you lose, you must accept your fate is to replace Clover as my bodyguard, with all that implies. To avoid the circumstance that one of us is left without a protector, the combat will be unarmed, with rules that will minimise the chance of lethal, crippling or disfiguring outcomes. What do you say?"

Simone Cameron looked doubtfully at Clover, then at Arta, finally at Jones. She said, "I accept, but damnation take you if you break your word."

Jones turned back to Arta. "You must also give your consent. To accept the winner into your service, and ensure she makes no hostile moves against the interests of Paradise Falls."

Arta bit her lip. She was hardly delighted at the prospect of taking responsibility for Simone Cameron considering the resentment she must feel, but how could she in conscience refuse? And should the result go the other way, she would feel less torn about making Clover her companion. In any case it seemed unwise to thwart Eulogy Jones more than absolutely necessary. The dire consequences of doing that had been amply demonstrated.

She said, "I consent."

"Good. Clover are you prepared to do battle?"

Clover gave an impish grin. She said, "It sounds like fun, daddy. Let's do it!"

"Then it's decided. As is traditional, the combat will take place at dawn. Crimson break out the rations. I've a powerful thirst that only a glass of fine wine can slake."

Arta looked darkly at Jericho. Contrary to her hopes, he showed no particular signs of guilt. But she was surprised to catch another expression, a harrowed look as though from remembered pain.

* * *

*_L'epee de flamme_: flaming sword; (for those unfamiliar with French, its pronounced Leppay der flam). Why put it in French? No reason other than to sound fancy!

_A democracy without its arsenal_: during World War Two, FD Roosevelt famously called America the 'arsenal of democracy'.

Hannibal's speech: until very recently I couldn't get him to give it. The residents turned up to listen, but he didn't. Finally after I'd already written my version, I got to hear it. I personally prefer mine, though I suppose his is mildly amusing in the way it distorts Lincoln's biog. The quote is from Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_.

_Death will take a wound. _Just once in a story, I'm allowed to get away with near plagiarism. In _Kill Bill,_ after making supposedly the finest of his swords, Hattori Hanso says to the Bride: 'If on your journey you should encounter God, God will be cut.'

_Spartacus_: historical leader of a slaves' revolt, as detailed in the film of that name, with the famous _'I'm Spartacus' _scene.*


	24. Duel

Ch 24 Duel

The shattered stone head lay on its side, the red dawnlight creeping across the broken fragments like a tide of blood. One eye remained looking upwards as though in mute and mournful reproach.

_There's little chance now the memorial will ever be rebuilt_, Arta thought sadly. _And instead of the beacon Hannibal dreamed of, he'll be looking down on that horrible grinning statue in Paradise Falls._

She had been unable to sleep and had waited for the sunrise alone, cold, stiff and tormented by her thoughts. Jericho had endured her accusing glare for only a short period before closing his eyes to slits, and mocking her with his snores. Apprising that Arta was neither in the mood to sleep or to talk, Clover had curled up like a cat nearby and entered the peaceful slumber of one untroubled by regrets or fears. After posting a couple of guards, the slavers had followed suit, Eulogy Jones and Crimson disappearing into the room formerly occupied by Simone Cameron. The latter had been forced to suffer the rest of the night uncomfortably bound and gagged with the rest of the prisoners.

_And so the contest is already unfair_. Arta looked across to where Clover was completing a series of warm up exercises. Judging by her perky expression, she looked fresh, alert and extremely confident. In contrast, Cameron was taut-faced and shivering, though whether this was due to the chill morning air or nervous tension was unclear. The former mercenary had not long been released from her bonds, and was trying to work some suppleness back into her limbs, staying close to the brazier.

Her initial warm up done, Clover began a strange routine which included slowly raising and lowering her legs, while making sinuous movements with her arms, and twisting and bending her body in a way that was almost hypnotic. Eventually she picked up the pace, shaping herself to make a number of rapid punches, chops, blocks and kicks. Cameron watched her silently and grimly, before hunching herself into a pugilist's stance and shadow boxing an imaginary opponent.

"Impressive, no?" Arta started. Eulogy Jones had emerged from his temporary lodgings, looking well rested and at ease with the world. He was accompanied by Crimson, whose smouldering and threatening glance in Clover's direction suggested that she at least was rooting for Cameron to win.

"You may be interested to know," the slaver leader continued, "that I arranged for both Crimson and Clover to be trained in an ancient Chinese form of unarmed combat. I believe it was called the art of Foo Yung. Clover in particular has attained a high degree of mastery. I used to have the two of them give exhibitions occasionally. While some of the techniques may be barred for this contest, they usually give a practitioner quite an edge." Turning away, he addressed the assembled slavers, and the two prospective combatants in particular.

"We will endeavour to make this a fight which will leave neither lady nursing broken limbs or faces. The latter would be a particular pity. Breaking the rules in any way will result in a warning, followed by disqualification for a second offence. Ymir will be on hand as a referee for this purpose, and I believe we can trust him to be unbiased." He nodded towards the bearded slaver, who stood arms folded with a look of satisfaction.

"The rules are simply these. No contact with the head of any kind. No arm bars or leg locks designed to break limbs. And no throwing, although tripping is allowed. Exiting the arena, which is to say this room, is not allowed, nor is pushing your opponent outside of it. You can consider anything else permitted, but if Ymir asks you to stop to prevent injury or for any other reason, you must do so immediately. The winner will be the last woman standing unless one of you decides to submit. Is that understood? Good. Then let combat commence!"

Arta gritted her teeth cynically. Despite the show of fairness, Jones had clearly intended the contest to be slanted against Simone. It confirmed her opinion of his supremely calculating nature, though Arta was puzzled as to why he was so keen for the mercenary to become his bodyguard. The trouble, not to say the risk, seemed excessive. Perhaps he found her particularly attractive or was turned on by the idea of completely breaking her spirit. At all events, he was expecting Clover to be victorious, with Cameron forced to submit to a humiliating form of bondage.

_And what about me? Who do I really want to win?_

* * *

_I wonder how much fucking worse this day can get?_

Jericho watched the two combatants prepare to do battle with a feeling of intense disquiet. Of all the means of dealing with the situation, Eulogy just had to have settled for this one. He, Jericho, was already being made to feel like a piece of brahmin shit from the looks of contempt Arta was giving him. And then there was the not so delightful prospect of having Simone Cameron as a constant companion. Travelling with someone inclined to put a knife between his ribs was not at all what he'd intended. And now _this_. His throat felt tight and hot, his brain churned. What he needed, the one thing he needed more than anything, was a drink. A whole lot of drink. But he only had half a bottle of whisky left. Reaching into his pack, he drew out the flask, unstoppered it, and started to raise it to his lips.

The dull sound of a muzzle suppressed shot was followed by the bottle shattering in front of his eyes, the fiery liquid and small glass fragments stinging his face. He stared at the chunk of glass remaining in his hand, then at Arta, unable to believe what she'd just done.

Reholstering Nova's pistol, the only weapon the slavers had returned to her, she barked, "You can face the consequences of your dirty tricks without that shit!"

No. _No. _This couldn't be happening. Not now of all times. Desperately he turned to Ymir.

"Jesus, man, I need one, you know how it is."

Ymir smilingly shook his head. "Sorry, my friend, bad time to ask. Maybe after the fight we'll plunder this dive for booze. That's if your little companion doesn't feel like engaging in any more target practice."

"_I need a fucking drink!" _Everyone's eyes turned towards him. He felt they were looking at him with contempt. Like he'd lost it and couldn't handle himself. He realised that he wasn't getting any sympathy and, more importantly, no booze would be forthcoming.

After a moment of freezing silence, Eulogy Jones spoke in a tone even icier than usual. "Shut up and pull yourself together. You're holding up the proceedings."

So that was it. He knew he'd have to endure what was coming. The scene was beginning to replay itself in his head like the fragment of film on the wall of _Eulogy's Pad._

* * *

The Deathseeker Clan chose to hold mortal combats in an almost entirely natural amphitheatre formed by the curve of black granite walls on one side, and a cliff edge on the other, with barricades and barbed wire entanglements placed to complete a rough ovoid. There was ample room for the tribe to witness the spectacle from the rocks above. Apart from the voyeuristic interest they took in such bloody matters, the manner in which the combatants fought was carefully observed. A Raider who triumphed in style would gain great prestige. And, on rare occasions, a gallant loser who somehow survived the actual fight might be allowed to leave alive by the general consent of the onlookers.

There was no question of that happening on this occasion. The whole tribe knew that the contest about to take place would have immense significance for their future. The winner would take all, and there would be nothing for the loser but a grisly death.

_Although I'm not out there, _Jericho thought. _I might as well be. _He took a long gulp of fiery hooch to keep his hands from trembling.

Katrina and Kilshandra stood facing each other in the rough centre of the sandy arena. They wore the traditional leather armour of Raider design which left the neck and one shoulder bare. The challenger, Katrina, was given the choice of melee weapon, and had selected one that both women were renowned for wielding with great skill. The combat knives they carried were honed to razor sharpness, held in the forward grip used by experienced fighters for flexibility and range. Katrina's had a blue handle with her name carved on it. The two of them had made sure to look their most beautiful. Appearances were important to a Raider, even if it only meant leaving a more attractive corpse.

Kilshandra stood almost a head taller, jet-black hair projecting in twin sets of spikes, her dark eyes fierce and proud, her expression grim. Like Katrina she was superbly muscled, the health and vigour of her appearance a testimony to the privileged position she occupied within the tribe. Her heavier build suggested that she held the advantage in strength.

Katrina's blonde hair was gathered in two ponytails, a girlish style which made her look even younger, as though in mockery of her opponent's maturity. Youth and its greater speed and agility were on her side, and she was making the most of that edge by choosing a form of combat favouring quickness of eye and limb. She wore a continual faint smile, as though enjoying a private joke. Her bearing was arrogantly upright, her clear blue eyes taunting.

As was customary, the two combatants struck poses and exchanged insults before battle. Katrina flicked her knife from her left palm to her right and back again, a reminder of her famed ability to use a weapon in either hand with equal effectiveness.

"Get ready to die, bitch! I'll cut out your coward's heart and feed it to the vultures."

A tremendous roar of approval went up from almost all the watching Raiders. Jericho reflected bitterly that, apart from being naturally disinclined to hedge their bets, they could see which way the wind was blowing. Katrina's star was on the rise and, due to a set of circumstances for which he, Jericho had partly been to blame, she'd turned the combat into a trial of Kilshandra and his leadership.

He knew where it had come from, this resentment of himself. Marlinka. Despite her mother's reluctance to take on the task of child rearing thrust upon her, Katrina had become utterly devoted to her, brooking no criticism, and acquiring through hereditary or osmosis every ounce of her fierce nature. The moderating influence of her father seemed to go for nothing. She learned from him only those things she considered useful to becoming a more effective warrior and gaining influence within the tribe. Taking Kilshandra as his woman had put another wedge between them, and then came the day when he'd had to report her mother's death in battle.

"You killed her, you bastard!" she'd screamed, and he could say nothing, because it was almost true. He'd done nothing to protect Marlinka from her own recklessness, and had hoped once she was dead, Katrina would change for the better. But it had been too late. His daughter had only become more savage, ruthless, and determined to oppose him in any way that she could. She'd scorned his leadership as weak and cowardly, and so gained increasing popularity amongst the younger clan members. It hadn't helped his cause that the attrition of almost constant fighting and raiding inevitably took a toll on the older and more experienced warriors, who'd at least tended to recognise the value of his guerrilla tactics.

Eventually even those surviving veterans began to realise their leader was becoming increasingly detached from their concerns. Sickened by the bloodletting and barbarism, he'd retreated into a fortified section of the metro tunnels. The last straw had been his dereliction of leadership in a revenge attack on Bethesda clan, their great rivals. He'd taken the unprecedented decision not to lead the tribe in person, feigning illness and delegating Katrina and Lalita to take charge. Despite her pleas, he'd forbidden Kilshandra to take his place.

During the battle with Bethesda, Katrina had overridden his orders and removed Lalita from the command of a diversionary ambush. As a result it had broken too early and all the Raiders involved were killed. The situation had been saved by the two women leading the rest of the clan in a brilliant pincer movement, which cut up the Black Scorpion warriors, decapitated their leadership and ended with the plunder of their headquarters. Afterwards Katrina had made the most of the victory, blaming the earlier disaster on the cowardice of Kilshandra in refusing to take the field as second in command. That accusation had led her to issue a challenge for trial by combat to the death.

Jericho felt sickened as he watched his beloved endure the baying insults of the tribe, knowing how much she would feel the hurt of being unjustly called a coward. And this because he'd baulked at risking the woman who gave meaning to his life.

Drawing her lips back from her teeth, Kilshandra stretched her arms apart, her dagger held pointing upwards.

"The sands of the desert will drink your blood."

It was the traditional challenge of a Raider prepared to live and die by the rules of the clan.

The combat had begun, first with circling, then feinting, then darting runs ending in a cut, thrust or slash. The rhythm quickened, the two fighters forming intersecting patterns as though following the steps of an elaborate dance. A dance that would end only in death.

* * *

Colin Moriarty leaned over the rail outside the taverna bearing his name, watching the early morning comings and goings around the crater. Jenny Stahl was arranging food on grills, her brother, Leo, hovering at her elbow. Even from this distance, Moriarty could discern that Leo was whining and pleading, and Jenny was berating him. _The pathetic junky can't stop stealing from his own siblings! _It was good to know that he continued to be a thorn in the flesh of the Stahl clan. How they had the nerve to set up a rival business in this town … _in my town, if you please!_ Still it amused him to watch their pitiful efforts meet with failure, it was only a matter of time. He looked forward to seeing Jenny destitute and with nowhere left to go, so that he could offer her a job working for him. She might take it too, the slut. He knew all her dirty little secrets. Lustfully he imagined forcing her to kneel in front of him …

A particularly plangent call from the Confessor drew his attention back to the bomb, the morning sun imparting a dull shine to its pitted surface. Now there was an example of how he'd turned an apparent threat into an advantage for himself. The greatest danger to Megaton for a generation, perhaps the greatest danger ever … but he had the situation firmly under his control. And those who had dared challenge his power would soon suffer the consequences while adding another feather to his cap.

Yes, this was his town all right. It had been so since … he thought back. Since a slight ragamuffin with a thick layer of dust caked around the first hairs of puberty on his chin had staggered through the front gate, and stared in awe at the towering buildings. And he felt the same about the place today. Megaton had everything a body needed to make a life in the Wasteland. It had been good to him … why go anywhere else? Travel broadening the mind … nonsense! He'd had enough of that as the child of a caravaneer. What a providence it had been that his father had been stung by a Radscorpion and died! The old bastard had dragged him around from pillar to post, beating him with a leather belt when he dared to complain. Orphaned he'd been left free to go and make his fortune. And what a heady rise it had been! First as leader of a gang of youths terrorising residents into paying them for protection. A real scamp he'd been then. His eyes moistened with nostalgia. Later as head of a consortium of caravans, he'd sledgehammered the competition with an army of hired thugs. Then came his climb to preeminence in the shadowy world of the Kindred. His winning strategy on the way to the top had been luring his rivals into a false sense of security before crushing them. Finally had come the crowning glory in the establishment of _Moriarty's, _a symbol of the more subtle power he held in Megaton, thinly veiled in a cloak of legitimacy.

Yes, on the whole, it had been a good life, a successful one. And yet … there were regrets. Moriarty frowned and scratched his beard. Generally he considered such maudlin thinking weakening, and avoided it. But today for some reason he couldn't rid himself of the nagging feeling that somehow he'd missed out.

He'd achieved all this on his own and, for the most part, he'd remained alone. There was Nova, of course. The whore everyone else had to pay through the nose to enjoy, he could have any time he liked. But in one respect he was on the same level as the punters. She withheld her real self from him. In the early days of their 'relationship', he'd tried wooing her. He'd spoken softly, even bought her presents occasionally. She'd remained cold and indifferent.

_Never trust a whore! _On one previous occasion he'd been foolish enough to do so. Thought she'd cared for him as much as he had for her. And she'd tried to betray him to his enemies. So he'd had her killed, swearing that he'd never repeat the mistake. Nova had tempted him to break that resolution. She was a woman any man would desire. But when she'd continued to deny him the part of herself he really wanted, he'd lost patience. He began to treat her roughly and beat her. To punish her for that denial. And, of course, that made it all the more certain that she'd always thwart him. Her hatred of him was barely concealed now.

Moriarty's jaw tightened. The day didn't seem quite so pleasant. He decided he'd go and wake Nova up, remind the lazy bitch who was master. She wouldn't … _love _him. The word caused him to recoil mentally. So he would take the only pleasure he could. Force her to do what she hated in as humiliating a way as possible.

Panting slightly with the exertion of climbing the stairs, he opened the door to her room. She was lying on the bed sideways, facing away from him.

"Nova! Wake up, you lazy cunt!" She didn't respond, and he stepped into the room. A hard edge struck the back of his neck, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

"So this is all about whether Eulogy gets to stick his big cock up your arse." Clover gave an impish grin, as she faced Simone Cameron, standing well balanced, her left foot slightly advanced. "Funny because you look like the kind of dirty slut who ought to prefer to lose."

Clearly riled, Cameron shot back, "Win or lose, I'll never become a tame, pathetic fuck-doll like you." She was still crouched into her boxer's stance, her hands, like Clover's, bound in cloth.

"Oh, you'll find I'm not so tame, darlin'. But being his fuck-doll is something you're going to have to get used to. And I'll be free to travel the Wastes like I've always wanted. So don't think the rules are going to stop me from beating you within an inch of your life."

_Both of them are highly motivated to win this fight, _Arta thought. _This looks like being brutal and merciless in spite of the rules._

The exchange of insults continued for some time, with Clover seeming to have the edge; perhaps because she was more foul-mouthed or naturally quick-witted or just less deprived of sleep. Eventually Eulogy Jones called a halt. "Let's have less jawing and more warring."

Unperturbed Clover fell silent and beckoned Cameron towards her with an insolent gesture. Holding her fists protectively in front of her belly, Simone advanced cautiously. At the same time, a great yammering noise arose from the onlookers which, much to Arta's surprise, included the prisoners. They had been ungagged and allowed to participate. While greatly outnumbered by the slavers, they added to the charged atmosphere. The dog Fourscore, not yet an item on the slaver's menu, barked furiously along with the others, and Crimson also appeared to be lending her voice to their side. Even Hannibal was stamping his feet. Arta wondered whether Eulogy Jones was after all showing a flare for drama, at least when it seemed unlikely to cause him much trouble. She herself felt no inclination to cheer either side, and she noticed that Jericho too was silent, his face uncharacteristically abstracted, as though wrapped up in a world of his own.

* * *

_It's the look of hatred that's so hard to forget. The kind that's festered over the years, until only the complete removal of that person will satisfy it. Not only from your life, but from life itself. It can spur you on to acts of death-defying courage – or to a fatal mistake._

He remembered the malevolence in Katrina's eyes, as she wove a shining trail in the air with her glittering blade, effortlessly flicking the knife from one hand to the other to drive Kilshandra back towards the precipice. The impetus of her attack was driven by that single-minded hatred, together with ferocious skill and superlative natural agility. For all her determination, Kilshandra could not match her in that; she had to rely on greater experience and cunning. When she had retreated so far that her feet were virtually teetering on the cliff edge, she made her move. Ducking low to avoid the slash of the knife, she pushed on Katrina's leg with her free hand, sending her toppling towards oblivion.

Jericho's stomach turned over, but Katrina saved herself by rolling sideways along the very edge of the precipice; just out of the range of Kilshandra's knife, which buried itself in the ground, allowing the younger woman time to regain her feet. As they faced one another again, he realised Kilshandra had paid a price for her attempt to finish the fight. A long horizontal gash had opened across her breast, thick, scarlet drops falling to mingle with the dust and sand.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead and squinting into the glare of the sun, Katrina gave a death's head grin. "Bleed bitch! My mother waits for you to join her in hell."

* * *

_Both of them are going to have to fight against their natural inclination to punch at the head, _Arta thought, as the two combatants closed on one another. Simone Cameron was advancing almost straight towards her opponent, while Clover was moving rapidly sideways, keeping on her toes, orbiting Cameron like a wayward and roguish satellite. The circle grew tighter as their pace increased. Cameron was the first to break from the pattern. She twisted to her left and made a rush to cut Clover off. As though anticipating this, Clover darted in the reverse direction, approaching her opponent from the side and behind. Her left leg lashed out to catch Cameron on the back of the thigh. At the same time she raised both arms, and with her fingers and palm held flattened, swiped down and sideways at Cameron's neck.

Though unbalanced, Simone barely managed to deflect the chop with an upraised elbow, but she'd left her lower right side exposed, and Clover swung her boot again to strike her in the region of the kidneys. Arta could see from Cameron's grimace that the blow had been exquisitely painful; however she gritted her teeth and flung a left hook. Clover dodged easily, then, as Cameron charged forward, she retreated, blocking each of her punches with elegant skill and speed. Once the attack had lost momentum, Clover swiftly countered, driving into Cameron with a series of rapid strikes with both hands and feet. Simone staggered back, and Clover caught her with a trip, yanking at her leg to send her crashing backwards, the hard stone floor impacting on the base of her spine. Arta winced at the mercenary's agonised scream and could barely watch as Clover took advantage of her opponent's prone position to kick her viciously between the thighs and in the side. Simone seemed to be writhing to dodge the kicks forever, before finally managing to roll away and regain her feet.

Clover held off, watching while Simone shook herself down. She asked, "Had enough already?"

Cameron spat deliberately

"Well, you must be some kind of masochist. Did you enjoy me kicking your pussy, slutty girl?"

For answer Cameron blew on her hands and crooked a finger in an imitation of Clover's earlier gesture. The blonde obliged by dashing forward to flip into a spectacular somersaulting dive, with the intention of striking Simone with both feet in midair.

_Showing off, _Arta thought. As though prepared for the move, Cameron moved back and to one side to avoid the attack. Then in a change of tactic she grabbed hold of Clover, lifting her off the ground and bear hugging her with all her strength. Gasping and red-faced, Clover struggled desperately to get free. Cameron increased her discomfort by head butting her in the chest. When she judged her victim sufficiently weakened, she let her fall, pinning her to the ground with her knees, and locked fingers around her throat to strangle her.

Arta could hear the encouraging shouts of the slaves rising to a crescendo, while those of the slavers had died in their mouths. She looked to Eulogy Jones, who remained impassive, then to Ymir who was standing close by watching intently. Clover's face was turning a horrible colour, and she seemed to have stopped breathing.

_What happens if she dies?_

* * *

Jericho's inner eye could see the desperation written on Kilshandra's face, as she attacked furiously, knowing each drop of blood that fell was counting down the seconds of life remaining to her. Katrina gave ground, content to let her opponent weaken. Kilshandra was backing her gradually towards the rock wall forming the opposite boundary of the arena, nearer to the jeers and catcalls of the spectators on the cliffs above.

Seizing her chance, Kilshandra leapt forward, gripping her opponent's knife hand at the same time her own was grabbed, forcing her back towards the rough stone. They struggled together, breast to breast, as close as lovers, but with faces riven with hate; then Katrina gained a purchase and used her boot to shove Kilshandra away.

For a split-second they faced each other, a dozen feet apart. In that instant, Kilshandra drew her dagger back and sent it spinning through the air between them. It sunk into Katrina's shoulder, drawing whistles and gasps of reluctant admiration from the spectators. To throw a knife effectively was a feat of extraordinary difficulty, requiring precise judgement of the distance and rotation of the weapon. Jericho alone guessed that Kilshandra had made an all or nothing gamble and lost. She had been aiming not at the shoulder, but the throat. Katrina's slight movement had been enough to avoid death, and now her opponent was weaponless.

* * *

"That's enough! Release the stranglehold now!"

Ymir's bearded face was close to Cameron's murderously twisted one. The mercenary reluctantly slackened her grip. Clover was still conscious, and Simone seemed to realise that the rule disallowing head contact made it difficult to inflict further harm on her from the position she was in. She hauled her adversary to her feet.

Clover looked limp as a rag doll, but as soon as she was upright, she suddenly came to life, escaping from Simone's grip and twisting her arm into a lock, holding it pinned behind her back. She took several large panting breaths before hissing into Simone's ear.

"Thought I was finished? You've just got me real mad!"

She wrenched the arm mercilessly, enough to make the mercenary gasp with pain, and to make Ymir pay close attention. Before he could intervene, Clover kicked hard at the back of Cameron's legs to bring her to her knees, then thudded her boot repeatedly into the unprotected base of the spine, evoking screams of agony.

The roar of approval from the slavers indicated the tables had turned. Clover pulled Cameron to her feet by her hank of hair, a move close to a foul which Ymir let go. While the cheering increased in volume, she began to rain punches into her opponent's solar plexus. Doubled up, winded and helpless, Simone could do nothing to prevent Clover drawing back her arm and delivering a frightful blow to the back of her neck with the heel of her hand. She did it again, and again.

Simone Cameron stood swaying slightly, shaking her head as if dazed, hardly able to hold up her fists to protect herself. Seeing she was practically all in, Clover backed off a few yards. Taking a run up of several long strides, she launched herself into the air, her right leg leading in a flying kick, which struck Cameron squarely in the chest, propelling her backwards into the wall with great force. The back of Simone's head struck the hard stone, her eyes rolled up, and she slumped insensible to the floor.

There was a moment of silence, as Clover remained poised, breathing hard, her eyes shining. She looked to Eulogy Jones as though for approval, then more uncertainly towards Arta.

Jones said emphatically, "Clover has won!" A ragged cheer rose from the slavers as he strode forward to raise the arm of the victor, now dimpling smiles in all directions. In a slightly gentler tone, he added, "And it seems I must bid farewell to you once again, my dear." Clover gave a sniffle and Jones dabbed one eye with his sleeve, but Arta found his theatrical gesture unconvincing. She was filled with contradictory emotions: rage at what had been done to Simone, but excitement at the thought of obtaining a new companion.

Clover's gaze met Arta's again, the hint of vulnerability which the Vault woman found so disarming showing in the slight quivering of her lips. "Did you see how well I fought? Are you pleased?" Arta tried to both nod and shrug at the same time, and Clover added anxiously, "You _are _glad that I won, aren't you?"

Arta took refuge in frankness. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure what to think."

Clover looked even more worried for a moment, then her face cleared. "You big tease!" she giggled. "I knew you were rooting for me all the time! We're gonna make a great team."

As Ymir examined the unconscious Cameron, Jones addressed him crisply. "Try loosening her clothing and see if you can bring her round. Once she's got over the concussion, you can put this collar on her. No, on second thoughts …" His mouth twitched. "I'd like to do that _personally._"

_You sadistic bastard! _Arta could barely prevent herself from uttering the curse aloud. Feeling a compelling need to take her anger out on someone, she turned to Jericho. But he seemed to be staring into space, as though witnessing something only he could see.

* * *

Kilshandra was already hurling her body towards Katrina, her arms raised protectively, as the younger woman wrenched the thrown dagger from her shoulder with a yelp of pain. Kilshandra frantically grabbed for both weapons, caught one, but couldn't prevent the other from slashing her arm open from elbow to wrist. With the last of her strength she overbore Katrina to the ground, trying to force the held dagger downwards towards her opponent's neck. For a moment it seemed she was succeeding, as the two of them strained against one another, panting, chests pressed together. Then the effect of rapid blood loss became too much, and Katrina gradually pushed Kilshandra's arms back up until she was able to roll her over and straddle her in her turn. With sadistic slowness, she remorselessly began to press the blade down towards Kilshandra's own throat, while the Raiders' bloodthirsty shouts grew ever louder.

From his concealed position in the rocks, Jericho raised the sniper rifle. Through the scope he could see the back of Katrina's blonde head, and below it Kilshandra's pale face, eyes glazed, as though resigned to death. Clenching his teeth, he moved the rifle so that the gossamer thin crosshairs intersected between his daughter's twin ponytails.

And then … the memory of a small girl, innocent blue eyes turned up in accusation.

"_Daddy, why is everything so horrible here?"_

"_That's just the way the world is, darlin'. Sometimes its brahmin shit, sometimes its sugar bombs. I'll try hard to make it sugar bombs as often as I can. You'll have a better life one day, I promise you."_

"_Do you really promise?"_

"_Yes I really do."_

Moisture misted the glass of the scope. The rifle seemed heavy as lead, his finger on the trigger weak and impossible to tighten. Eyes squeezed tight with grief, he lowered the weapon in slack arms. He did not see the knife press home, or the fountain of blood that sprung up, but he could tell from the deep-throated roar and the emptiness in his soul that Kilshandra's trial was at an end.

_I'm sorry, Shandra! I couldn't help you when you needed me. _Blinking away the tears that were blurring his vision, he looked down on a scene of primeval savagery. Katrina was carving into the chest of her fallen opponent, splashing her face and neck with gore, while Raiders danced ecstatically around her. She was literally bathing in Kilshandra's blood.

He knew there was nothing left for him here. Kilshandra had … gone. And Katrina … he could do nothing more for her. The tribe wouldn't tolerate failure. No matter what he'd achieved in the past, a War Chief couldn't retire. He would have to leave. And not only the clan. In his heart, he was no longer a Raider. Just another arsehole trying to survive in a world of shit …

"Jericho?" With a wrench, his mind returned to the present. The slavers were still celebrating Clover's victory, while Simone Cameron had been moved onto a pallet, and showed signs of regaining consciousness. Arta was standing next to him. She slowly reached out to touch his cheek, sounding astonished. "Are those tears? Are you _crying?_"

Desperately he tried to push her away. "Fuck, no! I've got some grit in my eye is all. Let me be."

"You _are _crying!" There was something resembling a tone of relish in her voice, as though she'd finally discovered his weakness. He was so full of hurt, his chest so tight with grief, he couldn't resist her as she nestled closer to him. The slavers gathering around Clover seemed remote, leaving them together in their own private world.

"C'mon," she almost purred, gently stroking his cheek. "You can tell me all about it."

* * *

The slavers were assembled outside the gate of the temple, lined up in a row with their weapons held in front and ready, almost as though for a parade. To one side Eulogy Jones stood with Crimson and Simone Cameron, the latter now wearing the distinctive band of a slave collar around her throat. The remainder of her former associates were chained up nearby. Arta was almost relieved they were gagged again, so they couldn't heap curses on her in parting, but their eyes followed her accusingly.

_Perhaps Eulogy intends to convey some message with this show of force, _she thought. Certainly it was a pointed reminder of how the slavers had crushed opposition to their established order. And that they were disciplined, well armed and prepared to deal with any trouble.

A stirring went through their ranks when Ymir and Carolina Red came forward carrying the weapons they'd taken from Arta. Many pairs of eyes focused on her as she received the submachine gun from the scowling slaver woman, and then the sniper rifle from Ymir, who gave a slight bow. They continued to follow her as she holstered the automatic and slung the rifle over her shoulder, finally stepping back to stand alongside Jericho and Clover.

Eulogy Jones spoke into the expectant silence. "Our business is now concluded. I trust we'll both be satisfied with our new bodyguards." He glanced significantly at Simone Cameron, who was no longer manacled but weaponless. Arta wondered whether Simone's present role was simply as a sex slave, and if Jones would later try to brainwash her into obedience in the same way he had Crimson and Clover. If Clover could truly be described as brainwashed. A glint of defiance in Cameron's eyes promised the task of subduing her would be anything but straightforward.

Jones continued. "The good will of Paradise Falls goes with you, along with our wishes for the success of your mission. Until we meet again …" He raised a palm in farewell.

Arta met his eyes firmly, but chose to say nothing. Jericho gave the slightest of nods. Clover was waving frantically, blowing kisses and exchanging rude gestures with Crimson. She continued to do so as they began to walk away, a faint trail of dust rising to accompany them into the intense heat of the barren Wastes. Individual figures in the line gradually merged into one another, then diminished and were lost behind in the shimmering heat haze

Skipping along, Clover said brightly, "Off at last! I hope this is going to be a fun trip." Neither Jericho or Arta made any comment, and after waiting in vain for a response, Clover added, "It's so darn hot! I wish I'd brought a hat."

That brought a laconic answer from Jericho. "Maybe you'll get to buy one. We're going to Canterbury Commons to help you kit out and get some more weapons and supplies. It's where the caravans set out from." He pointed in the direction of a distant water tower, atop some rocky heights to the east. The roofs and upper stories of red brick buildings could be discerned above the crags.

"Shopping, goody! I used to love it when the caravans came round. Eulogy would sometimes buy me things. 'Course I don't have any money myself." A little anxiously: "You won't make me wear anything too square, will you? Can I at least choose something a little bit stylish?"

Amused in spite of herself, Arta replied, "So long as it helps to turn bullets, you can wear what you like."

"For real? You're so good!" She added, with a sly wink. "And in return you're always welcome to take _anything_ you want from me."

Arta tried to hide her smile.

Jericho chimed in, "Speaking of favours, can you hang back so we can talk between ourselves for a while. Without you pricking up your ears or butting in."

Sounding hurt, Clover said morosely, "I can, though I'll be bored, and I hate being bored."

"_Muchas gracias, _we'll try not to push you past your boredom threshold for too long." Once Clover had rather sulkily fallen behind, Jericho asked in a lower voice, "Are we straight now?"

"In what respect?"

"I mean have you got the message that I had no choice in what I did?"

"Oh, you mean in _that _respect. No. We aren't and I haven't. We are so _not _straight you won't believe. Just because you've told me your touching sob story doesn't mean …"

"Look forget that, it's in the past and there's shit I can do about it. The reality was and is this. Those poor saps were doomed from the start whatever I did. And Eulogy wasn't gonna just let us walk out of Paradise Falls while wiping our arses on his face. Because respect is important to a big wheel like him, and naïve fuckers like Hannibal are always gonna get crushed underneath. Are you getting the picture, or do I havta sketch it out more clearly?"

"You were the one who suggested going there in the first place!"

"Okay, I was, and maybe I got it wrong. But from where we were standing at the time it looked like the only call. And it hasn't turned out all bad, has it?" He nodded towards Clover, who was lustily singing a song from Galaxy News Radio. "Happy with your new best friend?"

"It's a little soon to say, don't you think? Anyway that's beside the point. Regardless of whether I think your shitty betrayal was worth it, we have to work together, until this mission is over or you finally get your just deserts."

"Well that's about the smartest thing you've said in fucking ages, though don't forget you can catch a bullet just as easily. Let's leave it there, shall we? Hey Clover, you can quit the audition right now. The Radscorpions have had enough entertainment for the day."

"_I'm as corny as Kansas in August, high as the flag on the Fourth of July, if you'll excuse the expression I use, I'm in love with a wonderful … _Oh, can I come back in?" She bounded forward eagerly. "I was already feeling lonesome."

Jericho sighed. "Why do I always get the high maintenance ones?"

* * *

The Mayor of Canterbury Commons, known to his intimates as 'Uncle Roe', yawned and rubbed his eyes wearily. The latest sales figures seemed to blur momentarily on the screen, but the story they told remained unaltered. Caravan profits were down. The Death Seeker clan had rescinded their right of passage again, and the recent local difficulties hadn't helped any.

Briefly he considered asking the Outcasts to extend their operations to Canterbury itself, then swiftly rejected the idea. Apart from their exorbitant demands for hard to find tech items, they were notoriously heavy-handed. He shuddered at the thought of power-armoured crusaders with Gatling lasers and rocket launchers battling against robots with plasma weapons or rampaging giant ants. Collateral damage would be almost inevitable. There had to be a better way...

The sound of breaking glass caused him to push up his spectacles in alarm. Were they at it again? Reluctantly he closed the computer down, picked up his assault rifle and stumped downstairs. If the Antagoniser and the Mechanist were squaring off, he'd better try to keep innocent bystanders out of the way.

As he opened his front door, he could hear loud female laughter coming from Joe Porter's bar across the main street. It didn't sound like the Antagoniser's nasal tones, more like young women indulging in drunken revelry. His relief that he wouldn't have to intervene in another superhero battle was replaced by astonishment as he caught sight of two extraordinary figures sitting next to each other on bar stools. One wore a mask shaped like a huge ant head, complete with antennae, the other a bucket-like helmet resembling that of a robot from an early sci-fi movie. Roe was stunned. Had the two wanna-be superheroes decided to drop their rivalry and share a beer?

He was rapidly disabused of this notion, as the figure with the Antagoniser's mask spoke in obvious imitation of her creepy voice. "Tremble before me, puny human! Bring us the finest wines in the known universe, or suffer my vengeance!" She drained her glass, and threw it against the wall.

This was followed by a loud titter from her companion, who had greater difficulty lowering her voice to sound like the Mechanist's booming one. "Yes citizen, along with a litre of engine oil!"

Both of the fake heroes broke into peals of laughter. Roe exchanged glances with Porter, who rolled up his eyes and placed a bottle before them on the bar. Roe could see now that from the neck downwards the women were armed and dressed as typical mercenaries, rather than sporting the matching outlandish costumes normally worn by their superhero counterparts.

Smoothing his combed over hair, he cleared his throat importantly. "Good afternoon ladies! May I ask where you obtained those fine pieces of head gear?"

There was more giggling, before the ant head was removed, revealing the face of a young woman about twenty years of age, with large, expressive blue-grey eyes and a mass of dark hair. She possessed a wild and unusual beauty, something Roe noted without any particular lust, for his own preferences ran in very much the opposite direction. In any case, he felt the dignity of his office required him to maintain a decorous restraint. His affairs, mostly with muscular young caravan guards, were normally conducted with discretion.

Treating him to a look more tipsily good humoured than hostile, the woman asked, "Who wants to know, and why?"

With a slight bow, he replied, "Mayor Roe of Canterbury Commons, at your service, madam. But you can call me Uncle Roe, if you wish. Those masks belong to a couple of local characters that I hesitate to describe as celebrities. They're more like nuisances to my mind."

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly. "You don't say? Then I've got good news for you. Tell him, Clover."

The second woman doffed her helm, allowing a piled up wave of white blonde hair to fall over one violet coloured eye, which winked flirtatiously. "Sure baby cakes. See we were moseying into this quaint little backwater, when we came across these two weirdoes squaring off, one backed by a posse of robots, the other by a herd of giant ants. There was a lot of stupid name-calling, posing and hot air. I went to ask the Ant Freak what was going down, but she blew me off. Big Mistake."

The dark haired woman paused from glugging her wine, and put in. "Clover whacked her so hard on the chin, she was completely out cold. Pow!" She gave a loud hiccup.

Clover continued. "So then the ants went crazy-ape bonkers, but the robots started blasting them. Meanwhile Arta was trying on the Ant Woman's mask for size."

Arta took over the tale, despite slurring her words. "I was just curious, is all. But then that Mech guy ..."

"_The Mechanist_," Roe supplied.

"Yeah, him. He started getting shirty, saying he wanted the head in case it 'fell into the wrong hands'. So I gave him a piece of my mind."

Clover giggled drunkenly. "Arta really embarrassed him. Asked him if he wore that stupid metal costume to hide his tiny dick. And a few other choice words beside."

Arta continued: "In the end he got real disenchanted, threw off his helmet and ran away, saying no one appreciated his crime fighting or something. Of course then Clover just had to see what she looked like with a bucket on her head."

Clover finished. "I doubt you'll see either of them again. Were they causing very much aggravation?"

Roe murmured. "Oh, not really. Perhaps we can offer you some small compensation for your trouble ... like a discount. Now is there anything else good old Uncle Roe can help you with today?"

Arta hiccupped again, and Clover burped her. "If we can't keep these, then we want some other hats in exchange. Big hats."

Clover added, "Big _cowgirl _hats."

Roe said smoothly, "As soon as I hear from our man Crow, I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile you're welcome to keep the others..."

"You'll have to do better than that."

Roe turned quickly to be confronted by a stocky balding man with a pugnacious expression. If mercenaries were commonly described as hard-bitten, then this one must have been bitten very hard indeed, perhaps by a Yao Guai. The man said sharply, "We're here for supplies: military supplies. Chinese Assaults, combat armour, sniper ammo ..."

"And hats," Arta reminded him.

"Big cowgirl hats," Clover insisted, giving him a drunkenly affectionate punch on the arm.

The man's expression changed to one of embarrassment, like a father whose daughters' behaviour has got out of hand. "Right, and those. I've been looking round but ..."

Roe said, "Sorry but all the caravans are out. We're getting a big push on against the Raiders. It'll be several days before any are due to come in."

Angrily the man said, "Then we're wasting our fucking time here!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Roe gave a satisfied smile. The day had turned out real fine after all.

"No hats?" Arta said mournfully. She swayed unsteadily, and Clover put a more than companionable arm around her shoulders.

The man said, "I guess that's too bad. Instead you can bring me a large bucket of water. Two if you can manage it."

* * *

The face was familiar, and yet not so. The lines of it were cleaner, sharper, the hair well trimmed, the beard absent. But the eyes, keen and merciless, were unchanged.

"Sam?" Moriarty could only speak with an effort. His throat felt dry, and his head buzzed like a swarm of bloat flies. His hands were firmly tied to the post of Nova's bed behind him. There was no sign of her, though a faint perfume lingered in the room.

The assassin was unconcernedly smoking a cigar. He regarded Moriarty from across the room, but said nothing.

"Water," Moriarty croaked.

Walsh gave a slight smile. "_And the rich man being in hell, cried aloud: 'Father Abraham, I pray you have mercy and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am in torment of this flame.'"_

Moriarty assayed to speak again, could not. Walsh watched him expressionlessly for a while. Eventually he reached for a carafe of water, crossed the room and raised it to Moriarty's lips. He drank thirstily.

Returning the water to its place, Walsh remarked, "The next time, I won't be able to do that for you."

"Next time?" Moriarty managed. He felt a little better, and tested the bindings around his hands, but they were secure.

Walsh made no reply. After a pause, Moriarty said, "I didn't know you liked cigars."

"I haven't had the opportunity to smoke them often. And it's a special occasion."

Moriarty considered this. He asked, "They were a gift?"

Walsh nodded, "From my new employer."

"The devil?" Walsh gave a short laugh, and Moriarty felt able to echo him. His mind was beginning to work again furiously. He knew an appeal to Walsh's good side was useless – he didn't have one. But self interest … well he could get out of this one yet.

He probed, "Did he pay you double?"

Walsh puffed on the cigar moodily. He said, "He didn't have to."

"Oh, Jesus Christ and all the saints!" Moriarty tutted. " Sam, I'm surprised at you."

"If you're going to offer me that, don't bother."

"Sam, Sam." Moriarty shook his head. "Haven't I always given you everything you've asked for? If I'd known you'd wanted cigars and …" he sniffed, "… fancy perfume, "I'd have provided them."

"Well, you didn't. And it's too late now."

"Oh, come on. It never is. And I'm a forgiving man. More than our mutual friends will be, if you carry on with this nonsense. They aren't going to appreciate you taking out their most influential member now, are they?"

Walsh took a drag on the cigar and exhaled. "Don't you think I haven't taken that into consideration already?"

Moriarty allowed a hint of derision to mingle with the sympathetic tone. "This fella Burke's really put the frighteners on you, hasn't he? You who I believed feared no man."

Walsh showed no sign of rancour at the implied insult. "That's the point, Colin. He's something more than an ordinary man."

"What?" Moriarty felt a sudden twinge of fear overriding the hope.

"Maybe you'll understand after you cross over. Until then, you might as well accept you're a corpse that happens to be still talking. Like some kind of zombie, you could say."

Moriarty decided it was time to turn the screw harder. "Sam, if you kill me, you're as good as dead too. You know that."

Walsh smiled. "No, I'm going to live. You see, I'm not going to kill you." He walked over to the door and opened it. "_They're_ going to kill you."

Nova and Gob stood in the doorway. Nova's eyes were glazed, and she had a long knife in her hand. Gob was growling deep in his throat. For the first time Moriarty noticed how sharp and pointed the ghoul's teeth were, and how long the fingernails protruding from the rotting flesh, like the claws of a wild animal. He felt real terror at last, as though his entrails were turning to ice.

"No!" he shouted. "No, you can't, you can't let them." The two advanced into the room, closing the door behind them. "Keep away!" he shrieked. "Keep away from me, damn you!"

Lucy West approached the saloon bar and was puzzled to find it deserted. She shrugged and helped herself to a beer. After tipping back the bottle, she paused. She thought she could hear muffled screams coming from somewhere above. Though very faint, they sounded no less horrible, like someone having his very soul ripped from his body. Shuddering she moved to where she couldn't hear them anymore. Sometimes it really was best to mind your own business.

* * *

"I can't believe you did that!" Arta complained. Her hair was wetly plastered to her scalp, and water dripped from her clothes. "That added almost ten points to my radiation count. You could've at least let me take some rad-x first."

"Rad-x, nothing!" Jericho scoffed. "Not worth it for such an itty bit of exposure. And we didn't have time to waste waiting for you to sober up. We're approaching the outskirts of central DC, and Bethesda clan territory to boot. From here on we're one fuck up away from becoming meat for Raiders, ghouls and supermutants of all varieties. We've gotta stay frosty at all times."

"So what's new?" Arta eyed the terrain to the south, where the towering ruins were drawing closer, any one of which could hide enemies by the score. The late afternoon sun lengthened the shadows around a myriad of empty windows and doorways. The broken freeways were beginning to converge, providing wide pathways through the rubble infested suburbs for the very brave or the extremely foolish. Her gaze rested on the obelisk-like tip of the Washington monument looming over all. "The idea of you lecturing anyone about drinking excessively is just too funny."

"If you can drink and shoot a gnat off a brahmin's head at one thousand metres, then fine. And that reminds me, give Clover your sniper and take her automatic. It's too bad you haven't trained on Chinese assault rifles before, but better late than never. You're going to need to use one before long. Remember what I said: short controlled bursts."

Clover made the swap uncomplainingly. She'd got a soaking too, but it didn't seem to have dampened her spirits. Pulling up her scarf further to shield her mouth from dust, she used the riflescope to scan the road ahead.

Arta had barely managed to come to terms with the weapon's unfamiliar design, when she heard Jericho bark, "What's this?"

From the west, where the road from the Temple of the Union wandered south roughly parallel with the segmented flyover they'd passed under the previous day, a man was running wildly across the dusty steppe.

"Hey, hold up!" Seeing Jericho tracking the progress of the newcomer with his weapon, Arta said hastily, "He looks unarmed."

"Yeah, famous last words." Jericho's cynical retort was interrupted by the man shouting "Help! Please help me!" He was about a hundred yards away, and closing rapidly. His flapping brahmin skin outfit reinforced the impression he wasn't much of a threat.

Arta called out, "How can we help? What's wrong? Please won't you stand still?"

The man kept running. He shouted hysterically, "They've strapped a bomb to me. It's going to explode any minute. Please, you've got to …"

Reacting on pure instinct, Clover threw herself onto Arta, dragging her to the ground, while Jericho automatically dropped to one knee and aimed a raking burst of fire at the onrushing man. He gave a hoarse yell, threw up his arms and collapsed to the ground only ten yards away, giving Jericho barely time to flatten himself before a yellow flare was followed by the sudden hot wind and roar of an explosion.

Struggling to disentangle her limbs from Clover's, and observing the grisly sight of smoking body parts scattered all around, Arta said, "What kind of sick stunt was that?"

"That was an old Raider trick. Stay where you are, there'll be more to come, I guarantee." Jericho was reloading rapidly while his eyes swept the horizon.

Clover said urgently, "There's movement to the south west; two marks, no three."

"Right, keep low and follow me, we'll make for the cover of that dumper."

Before they could comply with his directions, Clover screamed, "Rocket! Hit the dirt!"

From a crossroads to the south, a rounded object was streaking straight towards them leaving a long trail of smoke. As the missile approached, the nose cone seemed suddenly bigger in the last seconds before it whizzed overhead and struck the ground behind with a sound like the world ending.

* * *

*Clover's 'finishing move' was based on one Bruce Lee used in _Enter the Dragon_ (which resulted in the actor playing O Hara breaking several ribs as well as injuries to the extras who tried to hold him up). Steal from the best: some of the martial arts sequences are the coolest ever IMHO.

_The rich man being in hell: _a rough rendering of Luke 16:24. If you're rich and mean with it, you'd better hope its 'metaphorical'.

_short, controlled bursts: _my favourite line from _Aliens_, apart from all the other ones._*  
_


	25. Scrap Yard

Ch 25 Scrap yard

Shock, vibration. A roar in her ears and something like the Hand of God pushing against every fibre of her body. She was clinging to the face of the earth as though she were about to fall off it.

The sound, which seemed the loudest she'd ever heard, had caused her ears to ring and bleed. She opened her eyes into drifting smoke. There was a numbness in most of her body except for her head. For a moment she was afraid she'd been paralysed, then realised it was simple shock, and that she was able to move her limbs. Looking sideways through the clearing dust and vapours, she saw Clover lying next to her. She appeared unharmed, and was already shifting herself into a firing position, bringing the sniper scope up to her eye.

Behind them, Jericho was wriggling forward along the sunken road on his belly, leaving a dark red trail snaking across the broken surface, his assault rifle held in one hand. He coughed, then said harshly, "Did you see where it came from?"

"Jesus! You're wounded!" Arta could see the blood oozing from his side, where a piece of metal was embedded.

Jericho ignored her. "Well?"

Clover said, "I saw but … wait … she's standing up again, just by that trench near the crossroads."

"Then shoot for fuck's sake!"

The harsh cough of the sniper rifle was followed by Clover exclaiming excitedly, "Got her! Right through the head."

"What the hell … I meant shoot the launcher, dumbo! That would've been an easier target!"

"I couldn't be sure I'd disable it." Clover sounded hurt. "There's no one else near it, and if they try …" A bullet whistled over their heads. "Anyway it looks like they're lined up on that road to the south, that runs east-west like this one, hiding behind the scrub and fences. It's Raiders, by the way."

"Tell me something I didn't know. Where they are is higher up, but we can still use the dip and edges of this road for cover. Better still we can get behind that old car. It's completely burnt out and shouldn't blow up on us. I'll lay down some suppressing fire. Ready, now move it!"

Clover and Arta scampered towards the vehicle as Jericho rose up and unleashed a long raking burst from his assault rifle. In reply, a single bullet pinged off the ancient blackened metal.

"Now cover me!"

Arta found it easiest to stand up and rest the Chinese assault rifle on the car roof. _Short controlled bursts? Why didn't he take his own advice? _She figured the answer to that herself. _Because he was getting them to keep their heads down, not shoot accurately. _However she didn't feel confident enough to use the weapon on full auto, and instead aimed several shorter salvos at different points of the compass. The recoil suppression was better than she expected, but it required effort at first to keep the weapon from bucking out of control. The response of the enemy was intensified, several shots whistling close to Jericho as he sprinted to join them.

Noticing her difficulty Clover asked, "Wanna swap back? You can practice some more when our arses aren't at stake."

Arta gratefully received back her sniper rifle, used it to survey the line of the road to the south, alert for any trace of movement. She gave a low cry of dismay.

"I can see more of them coming to join the others near the cross roads. At least four." She tried to place the crosshairs on one of the scuttling figures, fired. "Got one! Shit, he's still moving; maybe I just hit his armour. The rest have taken cover."

Jericho grunted. "This ain't usual Raider tactics. The dumb fucks normally can't wait to come to grips. Instead they're staying at long range until they get reinforcements. Too damn clever by half."

Arta said, "You weren't dumb enough to do that. Maybe these have learnt the same lesson somehow."

Jericho gave a reluctant nod of acknowledgement. "It's a distinct fucking possibility. We beat 'em enough times using the same tactics."

"I'd say it's more like a certainty. I can see three more coming from the south east."

"Fuck, looks like the whole bloody clan's turning out! If I ain't lost count, that's nearly ten already, far too many for us to rush. For the moment we've got them held up, but they'll be coming at us soon using the cover of that connecting road." He pointed to the right where another fenced road led down from the crossway. "And if any more arrive, they'll try to flank us both sides. In which case its most likely _adios muchachos_."

Clover said staunchly, "Well I don't know about you, darlin', but I ain't hanging around for that shit to happen."

Jericho gave a grim smile. "Then you're smarter than you look. There's still a way out to the north for us to escape. Problem is, some stupid arsehole's gonna have to stay here to keep them pinned down. That arsehole's gonna be me." He paused and let off a burst of fire at a Raider in a leather hood trying to creep forward towards the fallen launcher. The hooded figure rolled sideways into a ditch.

Arta said horrified, "But that sounds like suicide for you! And you need medical attention!" _Is this his idea of atoning for his sins? But which ones?_

"Look, I've been in worse situations, and I'm not planning to die. Once you're clear, I'll make a fighting retreat, lay down some grenades and mines as cover. Most of them should follow me, but I'll make for Canterbury. They don't go there … usually."

Arta protested, "Why can't we cover each other and retreat together?"

"Because I don't want you coming with me. I want you to carry on with the mission. If I get out, I'll join you later. Shit!" Two Raiders, a man and a woman, were scurrying along the north-south road, keeping low and using the fencing for cover. Jericho sent a grenade skipping across the ground and they took shelter from the blast behind another wrecked vehicle. A second more accurate throw sent the woman flying into the air with the force of the explosion. The man staggered away to be shot down by Clover, his body twisting like a scarecrow in the wind.

She asked, "Where are we gonna go? And how are we gonna meet up afterwards?"

"Good question. Let me get back to you on that." Several Raiders had broken from the cover of the road opposite, flanking to the left. Jericho and Clover sent a storm of fire at the wildly zigzagging figures. After one had dropped and the others had taken cover in new positions, there was a lull in the fighting. The only sound was the agonised moans of a wounded or dying Raider.

Raising his voice above them, Jericho asked, "D'you know Scrap yard, that junk heap of vehicles west of here?"

"Know it? I used to play there as a kid!" Clover ejected a spent clip and smacked in a new one.

"Good. Go north and circle round towards it. If any of them tag you, it'll be easy peasy to lose them inside. I'll try to meet you near the main gates within six hours. If I don't or you can't wait, go south and follow the Potomac east until you're near opposite the Supa Dupa Mart. Wait for me as long as you can near Farragut West metro. If I still don't show, go east through the metro to Chevy Chase. You'll see the GNR tower from outside there, and good fucking luck with the mutants." Without looking at Arta directly, he asked, "Did you get all that, kid?"

"My pip boy recorded it." Arta realised there was no time to discuss the merits of Jericho's plan. She would have to go along with it and hope. Yet the moment of parting, coming so suddenly, wrenched at her heart. She might never see him again. She wondered if he could sense her eyes, pricking with tears, resting on his intent, grizzled visage, trying to implant it in her mind.

There was no opportunity for elaborate speeches either, so she put a gentle pressure on his shoulder and said simply, "Don't get yourself killed, not yet anyway."

"Yeah, you too. Now get the hell out of here." He spared her the briefest parting glance. "Oh, and watch out for the Wheaton Armoury to the west. It'll likely be stiff with Black Scorpions; the human kind, that is." As Arta turned to go, he added gruffly, "Hey, kid, I believe in you; you'll do it."

* * *

The news that Colin Moriarty had been brutally murdered by the ghoul who'd kept bar for him spread like a wild fire around Megaton. It didn't take long for a large number of concerned citizens to converge on _Moriarty's_, brandishing a variety of weapons and carrying the traditional burning torches of mobs down the ages. There were shouts to 'bring out the monster' 'hang the feral ghoul from the highest part of town' and 'burn the zombie'.

The lynch party was intercepted by Lucas Simms, who was forced to fire several shots over the heads of the rioters to get their attention. After allowing the more excitable elements to let off steam, the Sheriff managed to quieten the crowd enough to listen to Nova, who stood beside him looking the picture of composure. Nova explained that Gob had not gone feral, was even now inside the tavern more in fear of his life than likely to harm anyone, and furthermore was quite prepared to come out and show himself if it was safe to do so. Lucas Simms added that Gob had been oppressed by Moriarty over a long period of time, and that in his opinion the killing had been an act of self-defence by a normally timid creature, pushed over the edge by one final act of savagery. In fact, he'd been trying to protect Nova as well as himself. There was much shouting and exclamation as Nova pulled down the shoulder of her nightdress to reveal what seemed to be bloody welts.

After the worthies of the town had been given the chance to ogle more of the apparently battered whore's wounds, they began to clamour for the appearance of the ghoul himself. Seeing that the mood had changed, Nova went inside along with Lucy West to persuade him to come out. When Gob eventually emerged between them, blinking in the last ruddy light of sunset, the gathered citizens were impressed, not so much by his words, which were hesitant and faltering, but by the cringing and shrunken shape his body had assumed. Even the most belligerent of them concluded it was not the pose of a creature about to run amok.

In his usual reedy tones, Gob reiterated the defence that he'd only been trying to 'stop Mr. Moriarty from hurting poor Miss Nova anymore'. The atmosphere in the crowd was now mostly sympathetic, though there were some cynical and lewd words to the effect that the ghoul had probably been dreaming of getting into 'Miss Nova's' pants, if he hadn't been in them already. Others opined that Moriarty's departure to the next world would most likely improve the quality of the beer and lower its price, comments which met with general agreement. Eventually advocates of this viewpoint loudly acclaimed Gob for doing the town a service, and took it upon themselves to carry him shoulder high in triumph once around the crater. But only after he'd first been sat on a chair, and poles placed underneath. After all, he was still a decaying zombie, and he smelt bad.

* * *

"I think we've lost them."

From their perch atop the bow-shaped roof of a dilapidated hut, the whole of Scrap yard was laid out before them, nestling below a rocky ridge, bounded to north and south by wire fences, to east and west by concrete walls. Arta was accustomed by now to the false, sad splendour the evening light could invest in even the most unlikely subjects, slanting at just the right angle to infuse the dust devils and rising vapours with an orange glow, glinting forlornly from the rusting surfaces of decaying metallic hulks. The junkyard was like a record of the detritus of a bygone age of mass rapid transit. Every kind of vehicle seemed to have found its final grave here: from railway coaches and buses, through atom cars to tiny finned rocket ships. Most of them were mere shells, intermingled with broken girders and corrugated iron sheds and piles of garbage of all descriptions. Arta looked at the jagged edges of broken and twisted metal, the shattered glass panes of doors banging in the wind, the steaming and oily radioactive pools.

"This was really your childhood playground? It looks more like a nightmare for your parents."

Clover thoughtfully regarded the wrecked train cars, the destroyed vehicles piled atop one another, the decaying pre-fabricated structures and piles of tyres as though seeing them again through girlish eyes.

"You're forgetting the kind of world I grew up in, darlin'. I wasn't brought up in a Vault where the main peril was bullying. As for my parents, they were dead by then. But I was looked after by Aunt Aggie and Uncle Leo, in this little shack hidden away not far from here. They didn't like me going into Scrapyard, but they didn't stop me. Probably thought it'd help me learn to survive and toughen up. And it did." She gave a slight grimace. "Truth to tell, it _was_ pretty dangerous. What with the Raiders, the wild dogs, molerats, and even bigger critters occasionally … getting trapped in a fridge or falling into an irradiated pool was the least of it."

Arta asked, "Weren't you scared?"

"No, not really. Not enough to stay away. Sometimes, of course. But, I was a kid, you see. This place was like one big adventure park. I used to imagine …" a slight blush touched her cheek "that this was the Lair of the Mirelurk King or the Desert Queen's Palace or the Enchanted Forest that I'd heard about in stories. When I was small anyway. Then one day I discovered an old hunting rifle, and it all got more serious." She shrugged. "Until the time came when I was grown up and ready to leave. No more magical adventures for me."

Arta thought about reading Grognak the Barbarian in the safe environment of the Vault, and for the first time wondered whether she'd been privileged after all. She asked, "And what happened to … your aunt and uncle? Were they sad about you leaving?"

"Of course, but they couldn't stop me. I suppose they hoped I'd make my way in the world, like parents usually do. And for a while things went well. I joined up with a caravan as a mercenary. It was exciting, maybe the best time of my life. But risky too. One day we got ambushed by slavers. We had no chance, were outnumbered five to one. But I fought anyway. I took down three before they coshed me. Somebody must've let Eulogy know about that, because after a short time in the pens he came to make me an offer, and you know how that ended."

Arta asked, "What do you think about your time in Paradise Falls now?"

Clover considered, then said slowly, "I guess I'm beginning to think about it differently. You know, to start with, it didn't seem so bad at all. I'd never met anyone like Eulogy before. He seemed … so wise, so powerful. He taught me a lot … and he allowed me to learn. True it was mostly about weapons and … how to make him feel good. The only things I got to read were about fighting and sex. But … he never had to force me. I gave myself to him willingly, because I felt I ought to be grateful for what he did for me. And everything was fine, just so long as I did exactly what he said. So more and more that's what I tried to do, until it was hard for me to think of doing anything else. If he scolded me, I would grovel and beg him to forgive me. Now I can see how, little by little, he was making my world smaller, so that I would become almost a part of him, like an extra arm he could manipulate any way he liked. Sometimes I would dream of what I would do if I was free, but I could never imagine that would really happen."

Arta said gently, "You didn't become part of him though, did you? I could see that, when I talked to you. You still had your own thoughts and feelings and desires."

Clover said, "Yes, somehow I'd kept them, and when you came, it was as though I'd woken after sleep-walking." She sighed. "Maybe I still remembered this place, where I could be whoever I wanted in my imagination." Looking straight at Arta, "Am I really free now?"

Arta said, "You are free to go or stay with me as you wish. I'm no slaver, and I won't compel you to walk into peril with me. But I would much rather that you stayed. And not only because I need your help."

Clover reached out to touch Arta's hand. "Then I choose to stay with you because … because … "

The distant sound of barking intruded on the moment of intimacy. Arta shook herself.

"We shouldn't stay up here where we can be easily seen by anyone or anything that happens along."

They used a toppled girder to climb down into Scrap yard. At this level, Arta could see that the half-shells of vehicles, tyre heaps, trash bins and shacks provided a host of nooks and crannies. Perhaps some hungry creature might sniff you out, and there was the danger of being spotted from above, but for playing hide and seek, whether as a child or an adult, it would be hard to find a better locale.

She said, "We'd best see if we can find somewhere to hole up near the gate, so we don't have to wait in the open."

"Sure, the gate's in the southern fence."

They began to pick their way through the maze of abandoned cabins and ruined transport. The barking had ceased, to be replaced by a mournful and desolate howling. The declining sun made the long shadows of wrecked vehicles look like those of the skeletal remains of extinct animals. Arta shivered, oppressed by a melancholy feeling of dissolution recalling the _Ozymandias _poem. All things must pass. Had Jericho already embraced that fate? When would her turn come?

"Quick, get down!" Clover pulled her into a crouch behind the front end of a smashed city bus.

"What is it?"

"Raiders! Up on the east wall." As Arta leant forward, she added, "Careful, for Christ's sake, don't let them see you!"

Arta peeked out cautiously from behind the empty wheel arches, exposing just the left side of her head. Through monocular vision, she could see a group of half-a-dozen dark figures standing atop the wall. The last light of evening caught the spikes of their hair, edging them with gold, like the plumage of rare birds.

She said, "One of them's kneeling down looking at something."

"Let me see!" Clover pulled Arta back, then occupied her position. "Shit! I think they may've picked up our trail somehow. Must have some kind of expert tracker. But why the hell are they bothering?"

"I guess they don't like people that kill them and run away. Do they look like they're going to come in?"

"Wait … I don't know … fuck, they're coming all right. Except they're not risking the climb. Looks like they're going round to where the wall's low near the fence." She gave Arta a desperate look. "It's my fault, spending all that time gassing on about my past. We could've found somewhere to hide by now."

"I was the one who asked you. Look we don't have time for an inquest, and it's probably no use hiding. We'll have to set up an ambush. Can you think of a good place?

"Well, yeah. If they're coming from the northeast corner, they'll almost certainly have to go through the gap between that red cabin and the inner wall, and then the two rows of piled up cars. If we wait and catch them in a cross fire, it'll be difficult for them to take cover. You set up by that metro coach, and I'll hide in between the cars."

"Okay, but be careful. Wait until I open fire before you show yourself. Then they'll have their attention distracted."

"Sure, darlin'. Try not to miss." She gave Arta a quick hug, and then, seemingly as an afterthought, pressed her lips warmly against her cheek.

Arta felt a glow at the contact, and a thrill trembled through her, but rather than distracting her, it left her even more focused and determined not to let Clover down. The blonde would be the most exposed should the ambush go awry. The Vault woman decided to lie down near the front wheel of the coach. She would have a steadier aim and a lower profile. With luck, the Raiders would be uncertain about where the shots were coming from.

In the silence that followed, she was aware of her heart beating. The feeling of the rifle stock as she cuddled it into her shoulder was comforting. And, yes, now they were coming through the gathering twilight, two walking in front, and the others following in file. Of the leading pair, one frequently stooped to examine the ground, so she focused her sniper scope on the chest of the other, younger warrior, bare except for crossed bandoliers, the black shape of the scorpion tattoo clearly visible. But she must wait for exactly the right moment …

When the last of the Raiders had passed the red cabin, Arta fired. Her target fell, clutching at his heart. She switched her aim to the crouching tracker. At the same time she heard the chatter of Clover's automatic, spraying on full auto. The tracker's head exploded in a shower of red, and behind him another warrior staggered back with bloody holes in his leather armour. The Raiders were scattering in panic, trying to take cover. With her gun empty, Clover hurled a grenade. It looked like being the perfect ambush.

But not quite. Whether through extraordinary level-headedness, instinct or crazy courage, one of the female Raiders, distinguished by her height and the chain mail bikini she wore, fielded the grenade, then instantly threw it back from whence it came. Clover dove behind the cars to avoid the explosion, which occurred in mid-air just before the grenade reached her.

Arta realised with horror that one of the cars had been close enough to be set ablaze by the fireball. "Clover!" she screamed. "Get out of there!" The Raiders had begun firing in Clover's direction, making it look suicidal for her to leave cover and increasing the likelihood of a secondary detonation. A second passed and another, with no sign of her emerging.

The ground shook. Arta closed her eyes against the blinding light, could feel the blast vibrating through her body. When she looked again, twin mushroom clouds were rising through the air. The explosion had set off a chain reaction along the entire line of cars, which were all burning fiercely.

_She couldn't possibly have survived that._ Tears pricked Arta's eyes. _She must be dead. _A hot wrath arose in her chest. The Raiders had all taken cover and survived, except for one staggering around holding her head.

"Bastards!" Arta shrieked. She rose up and pumped two rounds into the stunned Raider, felt a fierce satisfaction to see her fall. But two of the three remaining Raiders were starting to fire in her direction. Bullets whined past and bounced off the metro coach, and she was forced to retreat behind it.

The pad of approaching footsteps. She dropped her sniper rifle, and the next instant was confronted by the Raider in the chain mail bikini. The woman bared her teeth in a crazy grin, the tail of a scorpion tattoo arching above her breasts, her sub-machine gun swinging to level at Arta.

In a single motion, the Vault woman drew her shish kebab and slashed it through the Raider's arm, setting it aflame and slicing the hand holding the gun off at the wrist. The woman gave a scream, her cauterised stump held up helplessly, then redoubled it in volume as Arta mercilessly plunged the burning sword into her unprotected belly. She held the Raider impaled on the blade, as she writhed in agony, the scorpion tail jiggling as though alive. Then she withdrew it, allowing the woman to collapse. She felt a savage desire to take more life, at the same time knowing that no matter how many she killed, it would not assuage her grief.

A bullet whistled within inches of her head. She turned. A Raider had somehow worked his way around the other side of the coach. He was about thirty yards away, his hunting rifle raised and pointing right at her. She drew her submachine gun and fired, but the Raider's position behind a car made targeting difficult.

There was the sound of snarling, and a black shape leapt from the top of the car, knocking the Raider and his rifle to the ground. A dog of a similar breed to the scavenger's which she had killed stood above the man, worrying at his throat, while he shouted and tried to keep it off. She blinked in astonishment.

"Drop the gun." She froze. The voice behind her was harsh and triumphant. "Now, before I shoot you in the back, bitch." She complied, feeling a sense of resignation; that it no longer mattered.

"Take off that fucking weapon belt!"

Slowly, contemptuously, Arta removed the belt holding her sword, and dropped it. She did not even think to try anything. Clover was dead. Jericho was probably dead. It was all over.

A chuckle followed. "Turn around." She did so, and faced a bearded Raider with a high blonde crest of hair, covering her with a pistol. He looked dirty and ill favoured, his grin revealing gaps in his teeth. His face and tone showed gleeful satisfaction. "Well, looks like I've bagged me a beauty. And all mine too. Seeing as you've killed everyone else. Just goes to show it's an ill wind." His voice hardened. "Now start taking off that armour. We can have us a little fun right here."

Arta looked at him, wondering whether she should just provoke him into shooting her. Again it didn't seem important. Spiritlessly, she began to unfasten her flak jacket.

Before she could remove it, there was a sudden burst of gunfire. The bearded Raider choked, dropped the gun and fell to his knees, then forward on his face. A neat row of bullet holes was revealed across his right arm, shoulder and back.

Arta looked up. Clover stood a short distance away, holding a smoking assault rifle. Her hair was tousled and she was perspiring, but she looked completely unharmed.

Arta suddenly felt a huge and inexpressible joy. Without thinking she ran forward and threw herself into Clover's arms. The warmth and softness of her living body felt like bliss. She held her close, pressing cheek to cheek, almost overwhelmed with the ecstasy of touching, the sweetness of relief. After what seemed like an age of hugging, they pressed their foreheads together, smiling at one another.

Arta said breathlessly, "You're … alive. How … I thought that you …"

Clover said, "I know. There was an opening through the middle of the cars, where there was a door in the side of an old bus. I got through it, then jumped into a trash bin which protected me from the blast. I guess you haven't noticed how bad I smell." She pinched Arta's nose affectionately. "Hey, did you think I'd leave myself without a way to get out? I told you this place was like my nursery."

Arta said, "I'm so glad that …"

"So am I, darlin'."

They became aware of barking and snarling, and desperate cries. "Help me, call off your dog, for pity's sake!"

Looking to where the Alsatian was tugging savagely at the Raider's leg, Clover said, "We should just leave it to eat him."

Arta considered, then said reluctantly, "Wait, he might be useful to us alive." She bent to recover her weapons.

"I hardly ever find that to be the case with these scum." But Clover slung her rifle and followed her towards the one-sided battle.

As they approached, the dog was shaking the man like a rat, which, in truth, he resembled, his skin and hair filthy, his clothes ragged. His eyes were wide with fear.

"Call it off! Call it off!"

Arta was trying to work out how to do so, when Clover solved the problem for her. Strolling up, she spoke firmly to the dog.

"Leave!"

To Arta's surprise, the dog instantly let go of the man's leg, then sat on its haunches panting, looking towards Clover with an expression that seemed expectant and friendly. The fur on its back and head was black, that of the lower part of its face and belly sand coloured. Its ears were sharply pointed and pricked up.

"Come here, boy!"

The dog got up and advanced, its tail wagging. It allowed Clover to touch and fuss it, giving a quick lick in response.

"Who's a smart doggie then?"

Deciding to leave Clover to deal with the dog, Arta turned her attention to the cowering Raider. The man was nervously feeling his lacerated throat. Drawing her shish kebab, she ignited it and held it in front of him. "You! Why were you following us?"

Quivering with fear, the man said, "We weren't, we just happened to be …"

"If you lie again, I won't repeat myself, I'll shove this up your arse instead."

"A … alright. We were following you … to avenge the death of our War Chief's woman. A matter of honour."

Clover paused in her petting of the dog to laugh. "Honour! What do you vermin know about that?"

"A vendetta, eh?" Arta gripped him by the throat. "How many? How many of you were following?"

"Just us." Arta increased the pressure, and he choked, "I swear it! The rest were sent after the other outlander, the one who fought like a demon. If any more came this way, I know nothing of it."

Arta released him, thought for a moment. Then she said, "I'll give you a vendetta. Go back to your War Chief. Tell him or her what you've seen here."

The Raider stared back at her as though uncomprehending. Clover said, "Arta you're not going to let him go. He'll bring more of the fuckers back with him."

"He looks pretty lame. By the time he does, we'll be long gone." She addressed the Raider again, this time holding the weapon right before his eyes. "Tell your tribe this: when you see the flaming sword, you will know that the Angel of Death is near you. And those of you who do not flee far, far away will perish in the fire of her wrath."

The man's face showed stark terror. He wriggled away from Arta, his eyes bulging as though staring at a nightmare. "Y, you, k, keep away from me!" Panting with his efforts, he crawled several yards, before managing to get to his feet to limp away.

Once he was out of earshot, Clover said, "Wow! The Angel of Death! You certainly put the wind up him with that! And it's a pretty cool title. I'll remember it."

Uneasily Arta said, "It was just something to scare him." But she was wondering what had moved her to speak in this way. The legend of 'The White Sword' which had so impressed the Deathseeker clan? Or had the exploding vehicles reminded her of Brian Wilks? Outside of her dreams he alone had spoken without prompting of the _Angel of Death_. Amata had described her affectionately as an angel, Manya had been reading from the Bible, Caleb and Alessandra had merely been repeating ideas she had already placed in their heads. Otherwise there was nothing to associate her with this mythical figure, except easily explained coincidence and nonsensical dreams.

But she had a sense that her words had somehow created reality out of these fantasies. She imagined the legend spreading out and out, until there was no stopping it, no way for her to avoid the path of destruction prophesied. _You cannot escape your destiny. It is in your very name._

"Who's gonna have a nice dinner of Raider meat, eh?" Clover cooed.

* * *

The moon peeped from behind the eastern hills, revealing a trail of silver running alongside the broken lines of the railway bridge nearby. The girders overhead creaked in the gusts of the night wind, which also rattled the gates in the metal fence marking the southern side of Scrap yard.

Clover said, "I don't think we should wait any longer."

Arta said, "One more hour, we owe him that at least."

Clover's face showed that she wasn't impressed by this sentiment. But she said, "What we owe him is to carry on with the mission, darlin'. That's what he put himself on the line for."

Arta indicated the half-bus they'd been hiding in. "We need to rest up for the night anyway. This is as good a place as any we're likely to find. And we might as well make the most of our guard dog." She pointed to the Alsatian, which was lying down quietly, but with ears erect and alert.

"Not if those Raider scum decide to come back," Clover objected. "And Dogmeat's gonna be coming with us, aren't you boy?"

Arta sighed. Clover showed every sign of forming an attachment to the animal. The idea of keeping _pets _was something alien to a Vault dweller. There was, of course, very little opportunity to do so underground. She remembered a boy who'd tried keeping a Radroach in a cage. Once discovered, it had been pummelled into tiny pieces, and its unfortunate owner forced to wear a label round his neck with the legend, _I must not defile the purity of my body._

Up to now, her immediate reaction to most animals was either to kill and eat them, or avoid them. She'd assumed they would do likewise. Despite Clover's assurances that 'Dogmeat', as the blonde had christened him, was perfectly safe, she wasn't about to put her trust in an unpredictable Wasteland creature.

She said, "I'm sorry, Clover, but I'm afraid he isn't."

"What!" Clover looked at her in confusion. "Why?"

"You see we're probably not going to get through this mission by fighting every enemy we come across. We'll need to sneak through. And this … _animal_ will be barking and growling at everything and everyone. He'll give away our position."

"No, he won't. He'll have been trained not to bark. Come here, Dogmeat." The dog rose and walked over to her, its tongue hanging out. "Now, lie down boy, stay quiet." Dogmeat lay down on the floor, pounding his tail firmly on it. He barked.

Arta shook her head. "Yes, well, that didn't quite work out, did it?"

"But _Arta_ …" Clover tried to make her eyes appealing and puppy-like. "He's a really intelligent animal, and I'm sure I could get him to …"

"No buts. He's not coming." Dogmeat thrust his head close to her face, his expression apparently as woebegone as Clover's. Arta pushed him away. "He's not very clean, and his breath stinks. And we can't be sure he won't turn on us unexpectedly, particularly if he gets …" She fended off the affectionate licks Dogmeat was trying to give her "… overexcited."

"He attacked the Raider and not us. You _saw_ that."

"Well, exactly! I mean how can he tell the difference between one human and another? It was probably just a random attack," Arta sniffed.

"Arta, you don't know about dogs. They protect those that look after them, attack those who threaten them. While we were searching the Raider bodies, we also came across a dead scavenger."

"Yeah, and we got some good loot. But so what?"

"Dogmeat went and whined near the body. It was almost certainly his old master that Raiders had killed. He probably thought the Raider he attacked smelled pretty much like the ones responsible for his master's death."

"So we're relying on the vagaries of his doggie revenge? Forget it!"

"No! Now he considers us his new masters, he'll protect us instead."

Arta decided it was time to assert herself. Even if Clover wasn't her slave, she, Arta, was running this show, and Clover would have to accept that. "No means no. We can do without his protection if it means the mission's going to fail. Seriously!" When she saw Clover's lip trembling a little, she added kindly, "I can see this means a lot to you. Maybe when everything's over, you can find yourself another dog. Or perhaps this one will still be living here in Scrap Yard." _Like that's gonna happen but it might make her feel better._

Clover had the air of someone trying to comfort herself. "I guess. Maybe Eulogy will keep the dog from the Temple of the Union. You know, he's actually quite fond of animals. I bet he was joking about getting Jotun to cook him."

"Yes, I'm sure he was," Arta soothed. _Yeah right. Dream on, Clover. _"And you can play with this one until we have to go."

As though struck by a sudden inspiration, Clover exclaimed, "We can go to Aunt Aggie's and Uncle Leo's! Like I said, it's hardly any distance away, and we'd be about as safe as you can be, these days."

Arta asked dubiously, "But you said you haven't been back for years; how can you be sure they're still living there?"

"Well obviously I can't. But their home is very well hidden, and they weren't the kind of folks to go wandering. And caravans used to regularly pass by."

_What have we got to lose? _Arta said decisively, "Okay we'll wait for Jericho a little longer. Then we'll go find this place."

Clover said happily, "Then Dogmeat can come with us at least that far. Oh, Arta, please!"

Arta decided to give up for now. "Okay, he can come as far as Aunt Aggie's." _And absolutely no further._

"Yay! We're gonna see Aunt Aggie and Uncle Leo, Dogmeat!"

Dogmeat gave what sounded like an enthusiastic bark.

* * *

It was a bridge from nowhere, going to nowhere. It was unsurprising that in the darkness she had overlooked it, until Clover had pointed it out. _But it could easily have escaped notice even during the daytime, _Arta thought. _What the mind doesn't expect to see, it often edits out._ Especially as the bridge was very small, only wide enough for one person to cross in file, and built out of materials that blended into the rocky background of the dry gully it spanned. She was still unable to see any purpose in it.

"There's nothing on the other side! Just a rock wall."

"Aha! Let's go across, and take a closer look."

In single file they crossed the rickety structure, Clover ahead with Dogmeat at her heel. Arta raised her eyes to look at the massive trellises of the railway bridge, now on their left as they went back on themselves to the east. In doing so, she observed the moonlight glinting off a metal pylon rising from the outcropping of rocks ahead. Again this was so unexpected that she had almost taken it to be one of the petrified trees dotted around. What could it be for, and why was it in such an isolated locale?

Once across the bridge, Clover motioned Arta forward, "Now do you see?"

Examining the rocks ahead, Arta saw that there was in fact a very narrow passage between them, but twisting in such a way that it was nearly impossible to spot from any distance away. She began to feel more optimistic about meeting Clover's relatives. Whoever lived here was screened from notice by one of the most naturally effective means of concealment imaginable.

It took them less than half a minute to thread their way through the narrow defile. On the other side Arta stopped, gaping with surprise. They were in a natural depression within the rock, with high crags surrounding them. On the furthest side of this stony dell the remains of a white picket fence fronted a small and ramshackle structure made mostly of corrugated iron. To the left of what appeared to be a boarded up door was a tiny statue of a bearded man in a strange hat like an upturned sock. To the right the latticed metal pylon towered even higher than the cliffs.

Clover said excitedly, "I think Aunt Aggie's at home. That's her garden gnome outside." She turned to look apprehensively at Arta. The Vault woman perceived that her companion was torn between the hope of a joyful homecoming and the dread of finding something terribly amiss.

She said encouragingly, "Hadn't you better knock or call out?

Clover said hesitantly, "Yes, of course." Raising her voice, "_Aunt Aggie, Uncle Leo, are you there?"_

A high, slightly quavering female voice shrilled in reply, "Who is it? Who's calling?"

"It's me, Clover! I've come back, Aunt Aggie." Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Dogmeat began to bark loudly.

"Clover? After all this time? Can it be true?" There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the rickety door opened.

The woman standing inside had a deeply lined face with silvery hair, and wore clothes that looked as though they'd seen almost as many winters as their owner. But the joy that brightened her eyes seemed to bestow upon her the vigour of youth.

"Clover! It _is _you. My little girl's come home!"

They fell sobbing into each other's arms. Arta watched feeling at one and the same time relief that all seemed well, and sadness that she was left out and unable to take part in such a reunion. It reminded her that she had yet to find her father, and made her yearn for the comfort of his embrace. _Why aren't you here, daddy? How long will it be before I can hold you again?_

* * *

Clover pushed her fork into the crust of a pie filled with _Dandy Boy Apples, _and sighed contentedly. "I've been dreaming for years about your homemade pies, Aunt Aggie." Then with the fork halfway to her mouth, she said, "Tell me about Uncle Leo. You said he isn't here."

"Yes, I'm afraid that's so." Agatha's grey eyes were downcast for a moment. Then looking up seriously, she said, "I'll tell you how it happened."

After the initially ecstatic reunion, Agatha had warmly received both of them into her small dwelling. For the most part it appeared simple and homily, taking into account the great age of everything, including its occupant. The room was windowless but lit by the warm glow of an electric lamp. The battered frame of a double bed occupied a corner, there was an oven for cooking, and the bathroom consisted of a screened off area with a sink and tub. The main decoration was a wall poster of _Captain Cosmos_ and his space-faring chimp, and there were a few other eccentrically placed items, such as a teddy bear in a broken toilet bowl.

Arta wondered where Agatha went to the toilet. Did she pee in the bath perhaps? She hadn't had the opportunity to question the strange old woman about anything as yet, because she and Clover had been talking nineteen to the dozen. Arta had been fascinated to see how Clover would handle the delicate matter of what she'd been doing all the time she'd been away. An explanation to the effect that she'd been Eulogy Jones' sex slave and bodyguard seemed unlikely to go down well. But Arta soon realised that Agatha had been living in her own world for many years, and had only a faint grasp of the realities of life outside. She clearly had no notion of the function of the slave collar which Clover still wore, and quite happily swallowed her adopted daughter's story of _a kind gentleman who looked after me._

Now for the first time Agatha was about to tell them something about her own life. "As you know, we've always relied on the caravans passing regularly for supplies. It so happened that one summer they were delayed for a long time. We were getting short on food, so your Uncle Leo decided he'd try and see if he could bag us some game. He went out about mid-morning, and …" Agatha gave a sniff "that was the last I ever saw of him. I waited and I waited but … he never came back."

"Oh, Aunt Aggie, that's a terrible shame!" Clover put a comforting arm around the old woman, at the same time making frantic signs in Arta's direction. The Vault woman interpreted these as meaning she should express her sympathy, and perhaps distract Agatha from her grief.

"I'm certainly sorry to hear about your husband's disappearance," she said. "It must be difficult for you here on your own. I was wondering how you manage trading with the caravans. I mean they usually want something in exchange for their goods."

"Ah yes, I can see that must seem curious to you." Agatha dabbed one eye with a faded handkerchief. "But it's quite simple. I provide them with the gift of my music. I have a homemade violin and some equipment to make recordings with. I can even broadcast it across the Wasteland using the transmitter you may have noticed outside."

Arta had seen pictures of stringed instruments in the Vault archives, but she had never heard a violin. "I would love to hear you play, Agatha," she said with enthusiasm.

Clover nodded. "Aunt Aggie's a true master of her instrument. She can play all the great composers from the pre-war."

"I certainly can," Agatha said, getting to her feet with renewed vigour. "But you girls don't want to hear those dusty old arias right now. Our Clover's come home. It's time for a _celebration_. I'll play you a fiddling ditty that'll set your feet a-tappin'."

Clover said, "Yes, play us a dancing tune, Aunt Aggie!"

Agatha strode across the room and picked up a wooden instrument with four strings. She placed the violin under her chin, and drew a bow across it. The resulting sound at first seemed to Arta like a high pitched squealing, but eventually her ear picked up the strange, wild harmonics.

Agatha laid on her bow zealously. "This here's called _The Devil went down to Georgia."_ As she fiddled, both she and Clover sang:

_Fire on the mountain, run boys, run,_

_The devil's in the house of the rising sun,_

_Chicken in the bread pan pickin' out dough,_

"_Granny does your dog bite?"_

"_No, child no."_

Clover grabbed Arta's arm to pull her to her feet. "Dance, Arta!"

_But I don't know how! _But without quite knowing how she was managing it, she found herself dancing in a ring with Clover, leaning back to swing each other round with arms fully stretched, then clasping hands and pressing their bodies together in a wild tango, then alternately bopping and grinding their hips together. All the time Agatha fiddled away in a frenzied fashion, playing one tune after another, and Dogmeat added his own chorus of barks and howls.

Arta became hot and excited; not only by the crazy music but by the close physical contact. She could see that Clover was enjoying it too, from the looks and smiles she was giving her. _I wish I could've danced with Amata like this in the Vault._

Although Agatha seemed happy to keep up her fiddling all night, eventually Clover declared she was out of breath, and the two of them collapsed onto the floor to rest. Agatha put down her violin, and sat down on a creaking chair.

"Oh me, I don't think I've had so much fun for years! Does my old heart good, I tell you."

"It was good for us too, Aunt Aggie." Clover gave Arta a wink and a significant smouldering look.

* * *

"Do you know much about the pre-war period, Agatha?"

It was later in the evening. Agatha was sitting with her instrument resting on her chin, slowly drawing the bow across it, her fingers almost seeming to caress the strings. Arta listened enchanted. The music was very different to the tunes she had heard before. Slow, stately, the notes clear and poignant, it seemed to stir something in her soul. She was beginning to realise that there was far more to Agatha than she had at first thought. She was not merely a kindly and slightly eccentric old lady.

Agatha continued to play. "I wouldn't be surprised if I knew as much as anyone alive these days. It's been my habit to collect … certain items of value from the past."

"Like music?"

"Yes. This piece, _Air on the G String,_ was written by a composer who lived centuries before the Apocalypse. His name was Johan Sebastian Bach. At the time it was believed to be so beautiful that it could only be divinely inspired; the music of heaven." She sighed, and laid aside her bow. "Its amongst my most treasured possessions, one that cannot be taken from me because it remains written in my memory. But I have other treasures that I'd hope to be able to pass on to … well, a future time when people will prize them again."

Arta said, "Perhaps there are some who would do so now. You have records?"

"I have something more than that." Agatha hesitated. "I have kept this hidden for many years, but I suppose I should show someone who's interested, lest the secret be lost with me. Clover knows, but she doesn't really understand the value of such things." She nodded to where Clover was cheerfully basting a gecko on top of the oven, watched intently by Dogmeat.

Arta said, "I would cherish such knowledge, and keep it from anyone unworthy of it."

"That is all I ask." Agatha rose stiffly and carefully from her chair, and pointed. "Do you see that old piece of carpet? Pull it aside. Now put your fingers in that gap, and pull up." Arta did so, and a hinged square section of the floor swung easily upwards. Below a set of wooden steps descended into darkness. Agatha switched on an electric lamp. "Let's go down."

The steps had a handrail, and were quite shallow. As Arta went down them, she could see she was entering a brick-walled basement, actually much larger than the hut above it. The air was warm, though not excessively so, without any hint of dampness. Everywhere there were rows of wooden shelves, and on them books and manuscripts.

But such books as Arta had rarely seen. Not burnt with torn pages, but intact and bound in cloth or even leather. Many had the spines decorated or lettered in gold. And there were so many of them, that Arta became dizzy contemplating all the words they must contain. There were documents too, of fine paper, with delicate writing and bold illustrations. She turned to Agatha, bewildered.

"How did these come to be here? Surely you couldn't have collected them all?"

"No, not even in a lifetime. This hidden library was here before, and we built our own humble abode above it. But I've been inspired to add to it and, when possible, I buy books from caravan traders, though in truth there are seldom any that deserve to sit alongside these.

Arta said slowly, "This is a vast treasure beyond anything I could've imagined discovering."

"I'm glad to have met someone who recognises its true worth. All these years, this library has been enjoyed only by myself and, of course, poor Leo. I can still see him sitting there reading late into the night until he fell asleep." She pointed to a solitary rocking chair, the only other furniture apart from a single bed. "And now you're welcome to do the same, even if you must travel on tomorrow. "

"Oh, Aunt Aggie?" Clover stood at the bottom of the stairs. "I wonder if its time for us to take ourselves off to bed? Arta will be okay down here, won't she? I'll give her a blanket."

"Ah, yes, very selfish of me. You've had a long day travelling, and must be exhausted. Yes, of course." Agatha made towards the steps.

Clover quickly approached Arta with the blanket. When she was close enough, she whispered, "I've got to sleep with Aunt Aggie, of course. But I wouldn't be surprised if she nods off pretty quickly after all that's gone on. So if you want to stay awake, then perhaps in a while I can sneak down. Then we can stay up and talk … or do whatever we like." She brushed her hand against Arta's shoulder, massaging it a little, and lightly ran her tongue over slightly parted, cherubic lips. Their eyes met and held, and Arta felt a shiver of excitement.

"Goodnight!" Clover passed her aunt waiting at the bottom of the stairs, blowing Arta a kiss behind her back. The Vault woman apprised that Agatha had something more to say.

"Before I leave you to rest, I was wondering if I could help you find something to read. Is there anything in particular that attracts your interest?"

Arta scanned the nearby shelves, feeling overwhelmed. How could she choose from such a wealth of material? Suddenly her eye was caught by a title: _Angels and Demons of the Ancient World_

With a strange feeling of premonition, she walked over and took the book from the shelf. The front piece showed a white robed figure holding under its heel a frightful shaggy horned monster into which it was thrusting a shining sword. Intrigued Arta opened the volume in the middle. She found a chapter headed _the Seraphim_, and turned over several pages, marvelling at the rich colours and detail of the illustrations, the fineness of the calligraphy.

Standing behind her, Agatha said, "An interesting choice, which I myself have found fascinating. Here you see a catalogue of the principle angels of the Judaeo-Christian mythology; and specifically those seven who stand in the presence of God." Pointing she said, "Here's Michael, commander of the heavenly host and Gabriel, the messenger of God." Arta leafed carefully through the following pages, noting the names_: Raphael, Uriel, Chamuel, Jophiel and Zadkiel._

After the Seven, she turned the page one more time, to see a picture of an angel perched on a rock in the midst of a desolate wilderness. It had two faces, one male, one female, and four vast feathered wings. In one hand it held a sword of pure flame, in the other a book from which it appeared to read.

Moved by a peculiar feeling of sadness, Arta asked, "Who's this, and why does he … or she … sit all alone?"

Agatha's tone was wry. "Perhaps because this is not the most beloved of God's angels. Whether it appears as a man or a woman, it's seldom welcomed."

Arta asked, "But why, what has it done?"

"Its more to do with what it _does. _In its right hand you see the Sword of Annihilation, in its left the Book of Souls which contains the names of every living creature."

"But why does it need to know them?"

"So that when the time comes, they can be erased from the book, and from existence. This angel has had many names but is most commonly known as _Azrael, _the Angel of Death."

* * *

*The first battle with the Raiders is not quite in the location some of you might expect, considering that it would normally be triggered by the appearance of a Wastelander rigged with a bomb just south of the Temple of the Union. It's even further south, and can be reached by taking the road west from the Robot Repair Centre. And yes, some people reading the story really do notice such things I can assure you!

Fallout grenades seem to explode on impact, but I can't see why in theory you shouldn't be able to catch a grenade with a timer and throw it back, if you're crazy enough, which most Raiders are.

The mythology of angels varies according to religion, denomination and other factors, so I've put together my own version from the different traditions. As it happens, the angel of death is not usually shown with a flaming sword (but there's a comic book character, also called Azrael who _does _have one). And it's supposed to have four thousand wings (gulp!) Try drawing a picture of that.

Don't expect to find a library hidden under Agatha's floor, there isn't one.*


	26. In Clover

Ch 26 In Clover

The silence and warmth of underground, the heavy feeling of limbs pushed past the point of fatigue, thoughts that meandered from the contemplation of events past to delicious anticipation of future pleasure, all were precursors to a profound slumber. _To sleep, perchance to dream._

Arta was lying on a recliner more relaxing than any she could recall, far more comfortable than her father's examination couch. However there was a transparent seal of some kind over the top of it. She tried to raise herself but was unable. Somewhere a gentle female voice was saying something soothing about rest and peace. She slipped away into the dark.

Light returned. She was crouched head forward on all fours in a circle of lush grass. The world around her seemed grey and strange. Sounds came to her ears with an acuteness that was almost painful: the chirping of insects, the wind blowing the grass stems; each tiny noise was precise in its quality and direction. Smells were even more overwhelming; she could distinguish individual odours, between the flavour of freshly turned soil and sun-warmed concrete. Her breath came in harsh pants, her mouth open as though she needed to suck in the cooling air.

She tried to stand, succeeded only in achieving a semi-crouch. Something was very wrong. She looked down at her arms. They were hairy. And they weren't arms. They were legs. Her chest and belly were similarly hirsute.

_I've changed … into some kind of animal!_

She tried to cry out, succeeded at first in only growling. And then barking.

_Oh my god, I'm a dog!_

Before she could further ponder the implications of this remarkable metamorphosis, she was aware of someone walking towards her across the well-cut grass. The person's steps were loud in her hearing, the smell sweet and familiar. It was Clover.

Clover bent down towards her, smiling.

"Who's a good good girl?"

She was immediately aware of intense feelings of affection and trust, almost of worship, emanating from her towards Clover. There was a twitching around her buttocks, as the tail that she'd only now become aware of began to wag furiously. She thrust her head forward to lick Clover's hand. Clover reached out to scratch her ears and stroke her head, which she found intensely pleasurable.

Her mind was trying to sort out the possibilities.

_Either I'm dreaming, which is most likely, or through some kind of karmic retribution I've really turned into a dog._

The latter eventuality seemed most probably linked to her rejection of Dogmeat, who she now felt much sympathy for. The unshakable love of a pet for her mistress was something she was experiencing for herself. Being a dog wasn't all bad. But after being a human, it was undoubtedly extremely humiliating.

Assuming it was all a dream seemed the best way to deal with the situation. Putting speculation aside, she began to examine her surroundings curiously. She noticed that her peripheral vision extended further behind her, and that she had become extremely sensitive to movement. The palette of colours was uniformly white, black and grey, and anything beyond half a dozen yards was hard to distinguish in detail. But what she was able to see left her numb with astonishment.

Beyond the central grassy area, a road ran around in a circle, and behind that houses enclosed the entire zone. The buildings, however, showed no signs of the devastation that had been inflicted on those in the Wasteland. Surrounded by white picket fences, the lawns were neat, the walls and doors intact, the windows polished and hung with curtains, the paint fresh. People were going unconcernedly about their business, dressed in immaculate pre-war clothes. Children were playing. Everything seemed perfect, untouched by violence.

_Its like I've been transported back through time._

As if all this were not enough to cope with, she became aware of a voice, coming from nowhere and yet seeming to be right in her ear. It was rather faint at first, but as it became clearer she recognised it instantly.

Her father's voice.

"My investigations indicated strongly that in the pre-war period technology had reached a level which made the design of something like the Garden of Eden Creation Kit possible."

The tone was lecturing, and reminded her of the times when James had taken the younger members of the Vault on a tour of his clinic. On these occasions she'd felt particularly proud to be his daughter. _How ironic! The heiress to a tradition of rationality transformed into a humble beast!_ Welcome as it was to hear him, she wished that he would say something directly to her, rather than this impersonal lecture.

He went on, "I further concluded that the mythology surrounding the G.E.C.K. was created by the Overseer to cast doubt on its existence."

The voice echoed in her head, but remained as a monologue. _Daddy, talk to me!_

"All this led me to believe that information about the G.E.C.K. might be in the records of Vault 101, and most likely in the Overseer's terminal."

_Daddy please!_

A whining issued from her throat, and Clover pressed her head anxiously against her own. "What's wrong, girl? Is doggy not a happy woggy? Aw, come to Clover!"

It was particularly frustrating to be the object of so much affection and baby talk from Clover, but to be unable to respond except in dog fashion.

Her father continued, "If the G.E.C.K. existed, then it was possible that Vault 101 had been issued with one."

_Still harping on about the G.E.C.K? What about me?"_

"If not, I would have to escape from the Vault to continue research into Project Purity. That would be an awful wrench, but I was sure leaving Arta in the Vault was the right thing to do."

_What_? _What's he saying now? Project Purity?_

"To lose her as I lost Catherine would be the most terrible fate imaginable. Only when I knew she was safe could I return to the Wasteland with something resembling peace of mind."

Sitting on her haunches, Arta raised her head to issue an anguished howl. Her father had left her to pursue a scientific project he was obsessed with. What could be so important that he'd abandoned his only child? His expressed regrets only made her feel worse.

Clover continued to cling to her neck as she ululated. But then her ears pricked at the distinctive sound of gunfire shattering the peace of the settlement. From every direction men in dark grey jumpsuits were appearing, using assault rifles to open fire on the unarmed residents. She and Clover sat as though in a charmed circle amidst the mayhem, as men, women and children screamed, fled and were shot down ruthlessly. And as though to complete the madness, in front of them a vortex swirled and something formed out of thin air.

A door.

As she padded forward to enter, her father's voice came again faintly, _"The Overseer's terminal – that's the place to look …"_

* * *

When Arta awoke, her pipboy was still chattering faintly on her wrist. She must have left it in 'active' mode before falling asleep. She was lying on the comfortable bed in Agatha's basement. And someone was tucked up beside her. This time she was quite sure that the small, soft nose nuzzling her cheek was real.

Clover breathed, "Were you dreaming about me, darlin'?"

Even though she'd suspected this was the case, Arta felt such joy and relief at being in human form, that she was seized by an overwhelming desire to kiss Clover. And she did so. Fiercely, passionately. Their mouths and bodies seemed to meld together, breasts and thighs pressed close. Clover was not far off naked, wearing only a bra and panties, though Arta couldn't help noticing these were much more erotically lacy than her own. Like Amata, Eulogy's bodyguard had enjoyed at least some advantages from her attachment to a wealthy and powerful man. There were other delicious similarities to that moment in the Vault: the excitement of being alone for a hidden liaison and the feeling of release at finally being able to enjoy one another. _At last I know the taste of her lips, the smell of her skin._

When their tongues had thoroughly explored each other's mouths, and Arta was beginning to place gentle kisses over Clover's eyes and nose, the blonde managed to gasp, "Wow, I knew that you wanted me, just not how much!"

Arta's reply was to slide her hands over Clover's breasts, rubbing at the nipples through the silky material, feeling them harden. Then she stretched behind to unclip her bra, exposing firm milk pale rounded flesh, and the darkening areoles around the pert teats. Taking her time, she teased them with her tongue, hearing Clover's breathing quickening at her attentions. As she began to kiss and even gently nibble her breasts, the blonde's squirming increased, and she reached frantically inside her panties.

"I'm so hot! Do me!"

Ignoring this rather crude suggestion, Arta continued to tease Clover, rubbing her own breasts and crotch hard against her companion's. Eventually in response to her increasingly desperate urgings, she slid downwards along her body, brushing her lips against her navel. Then peeling down Clover's panties, she nestled her nose amidst the small forest of darker blonde hair.

Clover spread her legs wider, revealing the silkiness of the glistening petal-like folds between. Arta blew gently on them, then flicked lightly inside with her tongue, seeking for a sweet spot, guided by Clover's impassioned moans and pleas. When she found the place that seemed to provoke the most ecstatic outcries, she slightly increased the pressure of her strokes. _She tastes sweet and tart at the same time, just right for her._

"That's it, keep going, please don't stop!" Clover begged. "Oh, I'm going to come!" Arta continued relentlessly, and had the satisfaction of feeling the blonde buck and spasm against her, giving a final little shriek.

"Oh jees, that feels so good!" She thrashed in the throes of pleasure for a while longer, eventually collapsing with a happy sigh. "That was so … heavenly." She winked. "And now you've deserved my own very special present."

* * *

Afterwards they lay together blissfully entwined. Nibbling Arta's ear, Clover said softly, "You certainly know your way around. I'm guessing you're been with more than one woman before."

Despite feeling wonderfully relaxed by a post-coital glow, Arta's smarter instincts warned her not to give too much away. Clover's behaviour around Eulogy suggested she had an extremely possessive nature. Any indication that she, Clover, had a rival or wasn't so special as she'd thought might have a negative effect.

Anticipating the implied question, she said, "There was a woman in the Vault, a kind of childhood sweetheart. But I'm sure I'll never see her again. Then when I'd just got out into the Wastes, an ex-slaver called Silver caught me and forced me to have sex with her. So I killed her."

She thought she heard a sigh of relief. "And a good job. Something like that happened to me. Eulogy used to make me … play with Crimson. He liked watching, and sometimes he'd join in. I hated it because I hated her. But … I also used to go with one of the other slavers, secretly of course. I enjoyed that, especially because it was forbidden."

Arta asked, "Was it a woman you went with?"

"Yeah, naturally. I figured it might not be so bad if Eulogy found out. And apart from him, I wasn't so much into guys anyway."

Arta curiosity made her unguarded. "Who was it? Carolina Red?"

"No, are you kidding! Why would I want to sleep with that bitch?" Clover gave her an inquisitive look mingled with sly amusement. "What kind of fantasies are inside that overheated little head of yours? No, it was a girl called Jessie. She got careless and she got killed. Too bad."

To distract attention from her slip up, Arta said hastily. "I guess I'm more into women as well, even after one bad experience."

"Oh yeah? Still that hasn't stopped you trying the other half eh? Like Jericho, for instance." Seeing Arta looking down in embarrassment, she added, "I saw how you were with him after the fight. Is he your man?"

Keeping her voice carefully neutral, Arta said, "He thinks he is."

"Ah, so that's the way of it, is it? You need his help, so you play along? I understand." A slight edge to her voice, she continued, "Well, at least two of our ex lovers have got themselves killed one way or another. Maybe he'll continue the trend."

Arta thought, _Shit, I hope not._

* * *

There seemed to be a tang to the morning air, funnelled by way of the narrow passage through the encircling cliffs. _Or perhaps I'm projecting my own euphoria into the surroundings. I feel like I'm drunk with wine. _Arta stopped to pat Dogmeat, who was lying down beside the door, a faithful guardian in company with the garden gnome. She was reminded of her strange dream.

'_The Overseer's terminal, that's the place …' _She had downloaded the Overseer's files to her pipboy as a matter of course. Could she have overlooked something? Quite likely, as she hadn't bothered to look at them since the first frenzied moments of her escape. Perhaps now was the time to …

Clover's head popped gleefully round the door. "Aunt Aggie's making us a big breakfast of fried Sugar Bombs! She says we need some extra energy for our journey." Seeing Arta was scratching Dogmeat's head in a pre-occupied way, she said, "Aw, are you two making friends at last?"

* * *

"_Dr Stanislaus Braun." _Arta tapped a key to switch off her pip-boy display. "Does that name mean anything to you, Agatha?"

Agatha shut one eye, squinted the other and abstractly stroked her lower lip with her teeth. Eventually she shook her head. "Braun, no I can't say it does. Why, what's your interest in him?"

Arta glanced to where Clover was happily playing a game of fetch with Dogmeat. She said, "Perhaps we can go down to the library to talk about it."

A few minutes after they had descended, Agatha's face still wore a puzzled frown. "Braun was a pre-war scientist associated with this Garden of Eden Creation Kit you're telling me about? I don't quite see his connection with the search for your missing father."

Arta said excitedly, "The point is that everyone in the Vault except Dad thought the G.E.C.K. was a myth. But these files I downloaded confirm it was real. There's a note from Braun to the first Overseer …" she consulted her pipboy "saying it can be used to create 'a new earthen paradise' after 'riding out the storm of nuclear Armageddon'.

Agatha gave her a sceptical look. "So what went wrong? Why aren't we living in this 'earthen paradise' now?"

Arta frowned in her turn. "I don't know. It seems due to financial constraints not all Vaults were issued with them. Unfortunately our own wasn't amongst those who were."

Agatha shook her head. "I'm afraid you're not convincing me. You said that you and your fellow Vault dwellers were fed lies on a regular basis. This could easily be another of them."

_She's got a point, _Arta thought. And Braun had referred to the population of the Vault as a 'control group', a word with unpleasant connotations. She remembered Defender Morgan's words: _how does it feel to be a lab rat?_

And yet her father, a man not inclined to swallow falsehoods, had believed. Even if he was wrong …

She said, "I think my father was looking for a G.E.C.K., probably hidden in another Vault. He may have gone to Galaxy News Radio hoping to find clues about how to find one." She paused to wave a hand around her. "And I wondered whether your library might have such information."

Agatha shook her head. "Over the years I've tried composing an index. I've never come across anything like that. And I would certainly remember if I had. You see I have my own interest in locating a vault. My great great grandmother was a talented musician, a violinist like myself. She possessed an exquisite instrument called a _Soil Stradivarius, _made by a pre-war master craftsman. When war came, she entered Vault 92 with a group of other famous classical musicians." Agatha's face took on a brooding expression. "I've always wondered what happened to her … and that violin."

Arta shrugged. "After two hundred years …"

"Well, it so happens I know that these violins were kept in special pressurised containers, to protect them against the ravages of time."

Arta shrugged again. "That's only useful if you know where Vault 92 is. And from what you've said, I'm guessing you don't."

"You're right. But I've a notion of where to obtain such knowledge. Vault-tec headquarters in Vernon Square, central DC. I heard about it from a trader called Crow, a nice young man and quite handsome."

Arta met Agatha's eyes. "Central DC can be quite a dangerous place."

"So I hear. But Clover tells me you're heading into DC anyway." Agatha gave an embarrassed cough. "And if searching for your father involves locating a vault, then maybe …"

Arta said, "I'll give it some thought Agatha."

Agatha nodded slowly. "I'm sure you will."

A shout came from above, "Arta come up here quickly!"

Arta hastened up the stairs, drawing her sword, and found Clover sitting at the desk where Agatha kept her broadcasting equipment.

She said, "It's your dad! He's on Galaxy News … kinda."

"What!" Arta felt completely stunned. Her dad … on the radio?

Clover held up her hand for silence. "Listen, there's more!"

A voice that Arta recognised as Three Dog's came clearly from a speaker.

"_His name is James, great guy. Turns out, it gets better. I gotta report someone else climbed outa that Vault. What the hell's going on? Revolution? Vacation? Somebody fart? Your guess is as good as mine people."_

The news item ended abruptly and the broadcast switched to a song, _Way Back Home_ which Three Dog most likely considered appropriate. Arta in her state of agitation found it intensely irritating, particularly the lines:

_Don't know why I left the homestead,_

_I really must confess,_

_I'm a weary traveller, _

_Singing my song of lone-li-ness._

"Did you actually _hear _him?" she kept asking Clover.

"Well, no, not exactly." The blonde sounded defensive. "But it's obvious Three Dog talked to James. Or … at least he knows about him." She switched off the radio. "And now he knows about you as well. I guess that makes you famous."

Arta felt a mixture of elation, frustration and disgruntlement. "At least we're on the right track," she said. "And it seems my dad made it to GNR. So we should be able to get there too." Then she added, a trifle grumpily, "But I don't want Three Dog reporting on my doings. Apart from being a pain in the butt, he could give away our position to anyone following us."

"Hopefully only after we're well gone. We'd best make tracks, while the goings good."

"So you're quite determined to be off as soon as possible?" Agatha had reached the top of the stairs, breathing a little heavily. "Oh me, my legs can't manage like they used to." After a pause for rest, she hobbled across to a metal container and opened it. "I have some things that might help you. Your Uncle kept quite a lot of ammunition here, as well as his Blackhawk magnum. Here take it, an old woman like me has no use for such things."

Clover inspected the weapon, spinning the chambers and sighting along it. "A gun with a scope like this'll always be handy. Thanks Auntie." She gave Agatha an affectionate peck on the cheek.

"My dear, it's the least I can do."

* * *

"Well, it's about time for us to be going." Clover spoke brightly, but her eyes were moist. "You … you take care of yourself, Aunt Aggie." They stood just inside the passage through the rocks to say their farewells, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention.

"And you as well, my dear." Agatha reached forward to enfold the faintly sobbing Clover in her arms. "There, there." Eventually releasing her, she slightly elevated her chin. "Keep smiling through. But if you're having any second thoughts, then of course I'd love you to stay with me."

In a subdued tone, Clover said, "Aunt Aggie, I'd love that too. But …" she turned to look at the Vault woman. "Arta really needs my help, and there's no one else right now. When it's all over and done I'll come back to see you. And I … we've decided to leave Dogmeat with you. He'll be a good guard dog and a companion, won't he Arta?" Arta gave a nod and a smile in response. Kneeling down, Clover placed a food bowl on the ground. "Do you understand, Dogmeat? This is your home now. You have to look after Auntie." Dogmeat gave a little whine, and a bark, then went to lie down in front of the door. Clover wiped away a tear. "So … this is really good-bye."

"Good-bye Clover." Agatha embraced her again. "You two take care of each other. And well …" she gave a faltering smile. "If you hear any news of Uncle Leo, be it good or bad, try to get word to me if you can. I pray every day that his soul has found rest."

* * *

"This is what Uncle Leo and I called the Seeing Stones," Clover said. "And you can easily tell why."

Arta was reminded of when she'd climbed the road bridge with Jericho to survey the way ahead. Now she and Clover were doing the same from exactly the opposite direction, looking down from amidst a ring of rocks at the top of a ridge just south of Agatha's house. The view through the clear morning air, with the sun slanting from the east, was if anything more spectacular. The land sloped in shades of yellow and brown down towards the nearest of the high bridges arching partway across the Potomac, allowing Arta to see a great distance in a wide arc. To the southwest Tenpenny Towers rose from behind ash coloured hills, seeming frighteningly close, as her sniper scope swept across the panorama. Then more directly to the south, the broken grey walls of Springvale School were visible beyond the curve of the river. It seemed like an age since she'd confronted the Raiders there. And not far behind the deserted town, she could actually see the main gates of Megaton, the ramparts sloping inwards and upwards in a shape that reminded her of a laboratory flask. The vision brought with it a pang. _Way Back Home. _It was the only home remaining to her.

She directed her view another forty five degrees east, and gave an exclamation. "Clover I can see the Supa Dupa Mart! To the south east, just beyond that low bridge crossing the river."

"For real!" Clover brought the scope of the Blackhawk up to her eye. "Oh yes, I always used to wonder what was written across that sign. Well if Farragut Metro is next to it, then the shortest distance between two points is a straight line."

"Erm, I dunno." Arta recalled Jericho's more cautious strategy. "Shouldn't we follow the line of the high ground around to the east?"

Clover made an impatient negative gesture. "Messing about like that'll just allow more time for things to go wrong. And take us closer to those scummy Raiders' territory. From up here we can check the whole ground between us and the river to see if its clear. Then we can reach the northern bank in less than an hour."

Arta pursed her lips dubiously. "In that case, we'd better start with that ruined settlement down there." She pointed to a circle of dwellings with only the skeletal timber frames remaining of their walls.

"Good idea. We can climb down to the lower ridge to get a closer look."

As they clambered amongst the black basalt rocks, Arta remarked, "I can see a fenced off area with train coaches and tracks to the west. Is that another metro station?"

"Yes, Meresti Train Yard, a place with a very weird reputation. I wouldn't want to go that way, even if it connected with Farragut, which I doubt. I've heard everything from tales of aliens molesting brahmin to …" she gave a nervous giggle "blood sucking vampires!"

"Aliens and vampires!" Arta harrumphed. "Surely there's enough real threats around without inventing them! Sounds to me like someone's been making up stories to keep people away."

Clover pouted. "I'm not sure its just stories. You know once I saw a strange light in the sky like something was falling to earth. And then I came across an area of burnt ground."

Arta said dismissively. "That sounds exactly like a meteorite, a burning lump of rock from space."

"Yeah, but then I discovered several weird white capsules, rather like the power cells from a laser rifle."

Arta laughed. "And I suppose you also found an alien ray gun to go with them?"

"Aw, stop teasing! No, I didn't. Well, we should be able to get a good view of those buildings from here."

Arta knelt by a rock, and raised her rifle. The scope suddenly brought the shell structures up close, and amongst them figures moving.

"Shit! Something's going down. I can see people running about, panicking as though they're being chased."

"Let me look." Clover employed her own scope. "Ohmigod!"

A slight movement of the crosshairs and the reason for the blonde's exclamation became apparent as the pursuer of the frantic Wastelanders hove into view. Standing far far taller than a man, despite moving in a kind of half crouch, it would not have looked out of place in the compendium of angels and demons Arta had just read. The head was elongated, flat and heavy-jawed, with rows of protruding teeth, the eyes set forward, glaring ferociously, beneath curling horns that completed a classically demonic face. Below that was a long, pale brown lizard-like body, with a spiked back and tail. The two taloned legs on which it stalked with a sinister grace covered a distance in a single stride that would have taken a human a dozen long ones. The Wastelanders scampering amongst the rubble of the settlement were amply demonstrating the fear the creature could inspire. For its most terrifying appendages were spindly but immensely strong looking arms terminating in twin sets of foot long claws, which it held in front of itself as though in anticipation of catching its prey.

"What _is _it?" Arta felt a kind of fascination in watching the creature's movements.

"A Deathclaw." Clover's voice was as solemn as if she'd just announced the arrival of the Grim Reaper. "Arta, don't shoot."

"Why not?" Arta watched as a woman dodged around an exposed chimneypiece, avoiding the clutching claws by a hairs breath. "It's right across our line of march; attacking it while it's fully occupied makes sense."

"I'd rather walk a hundred miles around than go anywhere near it. I've seen one of these things rip through a party of well-equipped mercenaries in less than half a minute. Unless you've got some means of slowing it down, as well as very powerful weapons, it's gonna get you."

Arta continued to observe the Deathclaw carefully. "Well this one doesn't seem so fast," she announced. "Look, every so often it drags its left leg."

"You know I think you're right. It must've got wounded somehow. Otherwise it would've easily killed them all by now. Those things can usually leap huge distances too."

Despite this apparent handicap, the Deathclaw was still able to keep up with its prey. Even as they watched, one of the men running from it stumbled in his panic. Instantly the long taloned arms lashed forward and together, slicing off the man's head, and sending limbs and viscera flying in all directions.

Arta said determinedly, "I'm going to try a shot."

Clover said, "It's pretty extreme range. But I guess if you miss there's a chance it won't notice. I hope."

Arta waited until the Deathclaw had turned from killing the man and was pacing in her direction, thus minimising the chance of its movement spoiling her shot. Then she fired.

The Deathclaw continued unhindered.

"I'm sure I hit it in the head," Arta muttered.

"I told you. They're so tough, they make Yao Guai look like kittens in comparison."

Seeing that the Deathclaw was closing on the woman, Arta fired again with the same apparent result. With a curse she lowered her aim, and squeezed off a third shot.

The Deathclaw's head was suddenly severed from its neck, and flew through the air. The headless torso collapsed but continued to twitch for a while.

"Great shot!" Clover enthused. "The best I've seen! At that range, it was one in a million!"

"In that case it was the worst." Arta sounded disappointed. "I was aiming for the right leg." In a puzzled voice she continued, "I'm almost _sure _that I couldn't have hit it so high up its body."

"But if it wasn't you, then who? None of them had anything like as powerful a gun; they didn't even appear to be firing." Clover watched as the two surviving Wastelanders embraced one another and did high fives.

Arta considered, then pointed. "You see that ruined wall southwest of the settlement. A hidden sniper could've fired from there."

Clover said dubiously. "It's possible, but they'd have to be good … damn good … or very lucky. Well we can go ask these characters. At least they ought to be suitably grateful." She stood up and waved.

Arta said suddenly, "Clover, let's not go down there!"

"Hey, what's up? You sound more scared than when the Deathclaw was alive!"

"It … it's just a feeling I have. That something's not right."

"Got the heeby jeebies, eh?" Seeing the Vault woman's expression, she said, "Look if you're that worried, I'll check it out on my own while you cover me." She began to clamber down the rocks before Arta could object.

* * *

As Clover descended the slope, she wondered what could've spooked her companion. One of the things that had impressed her about Arta was the way she appeared to remain calm and focused while encountering all kinds of danger. She had dealt with the sudden ambush by the Raiders and the appearance of the Deathclaw in the same detached, down to earth manner. The unexpected vehemence of her refusal to leave cover was slightly disappointing. _Yet I know myself she's not cold and unfeeling, _Clover thought. _And all that emotion bubbling up inside is going to come out occasionally. Probably it's a delayed reaction to the danger we've been in._

On the other hand if Arta was right and someone else had fired the fatal shot at the Deathclaw, then she could be putting her life on the line for her new friend and lover. Well so be it. Her life now, her _new _life, was mostly thanks to her companion. True Arta hadn't wanted to pay the price Eulogy demanded, but Clover was sure that she'd intended to free her. If that hadn't been the case, she would still be in Paradise Falls. And the way she felt about Arta was more than simple gratitude. Could it be … love? She had thought she'd loved Eulogy, yet that had surely been something twisted. This was different, a wonderful feeling she'd never experienced before. It might be crazy, but she was determined to protect Arta to the death. From whoever or whatever threatened her.

While these thoughts were going through her head, she was nearing the settlement, keeping her eye out for any other danger, particularly from the direction of the wall Arta had indicated. The survivors, a man and a woman, had seen her and were waiting. They looked to be typical Wastelanders in stained and tattered shirts and trousers. Rather like the pathetic creatures she'd so often seen in the slave pens. She tried to suppress feelings of contempt. How could she be so high and mighty when she'd been a slave herself?

Cheerfully she said, "You guys are lucky to be alive."

"We know." The man sounded suspicious. "What do you want?"

Before Clover could make an irritated reply, the woman interrupted, "Earl, don't be so unfriendly." To Clover she said, "Don't mind him, he's just bitter. We've been through a lot, and lost people on the way."

Clover nodded towards the eviscerated corpse. "I'm sorry it was too late to save him."

"So it _was _you that shot the Deathclaw?" The woman sounded delighted. Clover nodded. There seemed no need to reveal that she had hidden support. "In that case, we're very grateful, aren't we Earl, and we'd like to show you …"

The man interrupted, "Now Jolene there's no need to get all excited. She probably wanted to kill it anyway, and she didn't save Bo neither."

"Don't you take on, you miserable son of a bitch! Bo was a dipstick who ought rightly to have got himself killed long ago. I'd have gladly swapped the smuck for one of the others who didn't make it. Now dear," she continued to Clover. "I'd like to present you with this here treasure map we've been on a quest to find. I don't reckon we'll ever make it there ourselves now."

Clover took the map and examined it. _Great, _she thought. _What I really wanted was another of these fakes. _The parchment was headed _Rock Creek Caverns_ and showed what seemed to be a maze of passageways. Next to a large 'X' was scrawled _Mirelurk King's Treasure._

She looked up and then _beyond _the woman and her expression changed. "I don't need it," she said. "Maybe you'd like to offer it to that guy over there."

A man was walking towards them, barely a hundred metres distant. He was dressed all in black, his high boots kicking up the dust of the bare ground between the ruined wall and the settlement, his form blurring in the heat haze. A long rifle was slung diagonally across his back. As he drew nearer they could see his hair was blonde, cropped short, with the beginnings of a sandy beard. Dark glasses hid his eyes, and his expression was set in a blank and unsmiling mask.

They waited for him to approach and address them, but instead he knelt by the corpse of the Deathclaw and began to examine it.

After a pause, the woman nervously began, "Er, Mr?"

The man spoke in a well-enunciated but abrupt tone. "Where's the head?"

"It …its over there."

He walked over to the severed skull, still ferocious in death, and picked it up, turning it this way and that, seeming disinclined to speak further.

The two Wastelanders exchanged glances. The woman spoke nervously to Clover. "We'll … we'll be going then."

"Good bye."

They tramped away to the west at a good speed, occasionally looking apprehensively back over their shoulders.

His examination of the head apparently complete, the man carelessly tossed it away. Clover put on a goof-ball grin and a flirtatious manner.

"How about this!" she said brightly. "I've got a custom gun, you've got a custom gun. Wouldn't you say that's quite a coincidence?"

The man turned towards her with the faintest of smiles. "Yes," he said. "Except that mine is much bigger." He removed his sunglasses and placed them in his pocket. His eyes were a clear blue colour.

During her time in Paradise Falls, Clover had spent time in the company of some of the more unpleasant denizens of Wasteland society. She had got used to seeing all kinds of looks, in which the evil lying within showed clearly in the windows to the soul. But she had never seen eyes like those of this man. They spoke of needs so deeply ingrained that their possessor no longer took any pleasure in fulfilling them, as if they had become an inseparable part of his being. A hunger like that of a vampire, that would drive him on in continual search of satiation.

She suppressed the urge to shiver, and continued breezily, "Yes, I noticed. That was a fine shot to help kill that Deathclaw, even though it was already wounded in the leg."

The man smiled a little more broadly. "I gave it that wound. Otherwise those rabble couldn't possibly have distracted its attention for more than a few seconds. As it was they managed to put on quite an entertaining display."

Clover's blood almost froze. "Very entertaining."

"I'm sure you enjoyed participating in the game. The head has two bullet wounds in addition to my own." With a hint of irony, he added, "Well done."

"Those … people gave me this for my small part in the ... game." Clover offered him the map. "So … you're welcome to your share of the Mirelurk King's Treasure."

The man made a gesture of rejection. "Keep it. I've more important business currently." She felt her skin pricking under the weight of his scrutiny. "Perhaps you can help me with that. You came from the north. From Paradise Falls?"

Clover became acutely aware of the slave collar around her neck. "That's right," she conceded.

"While you were there, did you observe a couple passing through? A balding bearded man of forty something … " he pulled his lips back from his teeth "with a manner I would describe as abrasive, and you would probably think of as cussed. And a woman of about twenty with dark hair and unusually pale skin."

Clover felt a near electric reaction to the man's words, and resisted the almost overwhelming urge to move her fingers closer to the grip of her magnum. She could sense the cold blue eyes watching her with the intentness of a rattlesnake about to strike.

Choosing her words with infinite care, she said, "There are all kinds of people passing through the Falls."

The eyes narrowed just fractionally, and she could feel her own pores oozing sweat. "Look, I'm not interested in buying slaves or catching runaway ones. We can each of us mind our own business. But if you can tell me where those people went, there could be some profit for you."

It was hard to think with that hard gaze upon her, but the wheels of her mind ground away. "I heard them talking with Eulogy Jones about going northeast. Towards Old Olney."

She thought she heard him release a breath. "Old Olney? You're sure. Okay, here's fifty caps. If your information proves good, you'll have deserved an additional reward. Look me up in Tenpenny Towers."

Clover felt herself about to faint with relief. "What's your name?"

The man hesitated before replying, "Walsh. Sam Walsh."

Clover nodded, and without further ado Walsh turned to walk away to the northeast. Clover sat on an old oven and watched until his figure became ant-like and was lost amongst the hills.

After some time, Arta emerged from the rocks and joined her. Clover gave her a wearied look.

"Next time I'll pay attention to your funny feelings."

"Why?"

"Because I've never looked death in the eyes like that before. And I'd rather not do it again."

* * *

The day following Moriarty's murder, wild rumours began to spread around Megaton. Originating mainly from Lucy West and Jenny Stahl, they gave expression to the generally held view that there was much more to the incident than met the eye, and that some sort of a cover up was in process. The more lurid tales suggested Moriarty had met his death in a bizarre sexual 'accident', with the details varying according to the rumourer's fevered imaginings, and usually involving Nova in a starring role. These were often tied into other speculations suggesting that Nova was either the main instigator or the actual perpetrator of the murder. The advocates of this opinion tended to support it by pointing out that a poor pathetic ghoul like Gob was unlikely to have either the guile or the bravado to do the deed.

Even more fuel was added to the fire when it was discovered that during the night the familiar sign '_Moriarty's'_ had been taken down and replaced by the distinctly provocative '_Gob's Ghoulish Gourmet Bar and Grill'. _Many took this as evidence that a) Moriarty's murder had not been a spur of the moment killing but carefully planned and b) that whatever else was true, Nova was up to her neck in it. The latter might have seemed a slightly illogical conclusion unless one considered the general low regard of the populace for ghoulish intelligence. Jenny Stahl in particular loudly and bitterly expressed her distaste for the proceedings to anyone ready to lend an ear. It wasn't hard to see that she had much to lose should the new management venture to sell food as well as drinks.

The most outrageous rumours yet nearly caused a minor riot, as some citizens heard to their fury that Gob was about to specially hire new catering staff from his home in _Underworld_. Another mob gathered with placards reading, '_Zombies go home'_ and '_Keep Megaton pure for humans'_. These protesters were again turned back by Simms, who reassured them that the story was completely without foundation. The other scarcely credible report - that Gob was standing for election as mayor - was somewhat easier for the Sheriff to quash. Regardless of the other nonsensical tales they were prepared to swallow, it was hard for anyone in Megaton to believe that a ghoul would contemplate running for high office, even taking into account the well-worn fact that all such contests were rigged.

As the day went on, the patrons who formerly frequented _Moriarty's_ were allowed into _Gob's Gourmet Bar and Grill_, (the title had been discreetly shortened) to be cordially greeted by the eponymous new proprietor, looking much as he always did, but seemingly possessed of a new confidence and self-respect. Nova was close by his elbow, causing suspicion and speculation as to who was really in charge. This grew more intense as it became obvious that Nova had 'retired' from her current role, and was no longer entertaining customers.

At noon, another sign was put up, to the general astonishment:

_Whores/Cooks wanted. Must be clean, presentable and with a flexible and adventurous attitude/ must be able to cook. Good rates of pay and conditions. Apply to Nova._

Amidst all the talk, hubbub and head shaking, a few of the more perceptive residents had concluded that the real power behind the killing and consequent changes was of a darker and more sinister nature. The _Kindred _were undoubtedly involved in some way. But such thoughts were seldom shared with others. Because careless talk often cost lives.

* * *

"Here they come, get ready."

Arta followed the approach of the two Raiders through her sniper scope. They moved at a stroll, talking casually with one another, the light of late afternoon imparting warmth to their skin tones, a gloss to their hair. She saw the woman laugh at something the man said.

Beside her Clover said, "This is going to be so easy."

For a moment Arta let her mind wander, imagining the scene transferred to some mythical island paradise, where men and women lived peaceful simple lives, bathed in the tropical sun and warm clear waters, embracing their lovers each night without fear …

They crouched in a position of vantage amongst rocks not far from the bank of the Potomac. In front of them towered a bridge that from this angle gave the impression that it crossed the river but, as Arta knew from her previous visit, was actually broken at its centre section. The distant figures of the Raiders were dwarfed as they passed beneath its massive pylons, following the weathered concrete of a lost highway that had once carried human traffic south of the river in fulfilment of consumerist dreams. The Mart remained as before, but this time only a lone Enclave Bot wandered amongst the grisly trophies hanging from the lamps in the parking lot.

It had taken them much of the hottest part of the day to reach this point. The march from the settlement to the bank of the river had been straightforward, the lands between seeming empty of life. Perhaps, as Arta had theorised, because either the Deathclaw or its nemesis had cleared them. From there onwards progress had been slower. On a suggestion from Clover they'd closely followed the curve of the river, hugging tight to the bluffs lining its shores. "People often keep away from the river bank," she'd explained. "Because they're afraid of Mirelurks. Well I am too, but I'm much more worried about Raiders and Slavers with guns or worse. They're a lot smarter and more dangerous than Lurks. Still we're going to have to go slow and keep our eyes peeled."

They had done so for an hour or two and seen nothing more threatening than radioactive barrels washed up on the shore. Nervous glances towards the shining wavelets lapping around the hulls of long abandoned and rusting boats never caught the gleam of a hard white shell or a sinister shadow beneath the surface.

Mid-afternoon came and went, and with it a dilemma. Ahead a narrow creek ran beneath a bridge and into the main body of the river. Which should they negotiate? Clover had argued against using the bridge.

"It's exactly where someone's likely to set up an ambush," she'd pointed out.

Arta had disagreed. "If we go down into the creek it'll be hard to climb out again. What will we do if a Mirelurk appears suddenly?"

Clover pointed to the many ruined buildings occupying the skyline to the north and east. "And the bridge will be overlooked by those; most of them in the heart of Black Scorpion clan territory."

In the end they'd decided that the bridge was the lesser danger. To minimise the risk of being spotted, they'd crawled on their bellies, keeping well below the level of the parapet. When they were about halfway, they'd heard a heavy tread on the rocks beneath, and the distinct call of a Mirelurk. They'd remained still and silent, flattened to the ground, listening to their hearts beating, until the ominous clicking footsteps had faded into the sounds of lapping water.

After they'd made it all the way across and were once more in the cover of rocks, Clover had whispered, "That sounded like it was heavier than the average Lurk. I wonder if it was a Hunter. Next to the Kings, they're the most deadly. Good call; your advice may have saved our lives."

_And now we're here and about to take someone else's._ _When will it stop? _The Raiders had paused in their promenade, almost as if to make themselves easy targets.

Clover breathed, "Now!"

The two gun reports were almost as one, the roar of the magnum rising and echoing above the suppressed bark of the sniper. Two heads rolled, two decapitated bodies fell on top of one another.

Looking down at them, Arta had the sick feeling of an executioner. She said, "Do you think they were a couple?"

"What?" Clover was busy rifling the bodies for ammunition and other valuables. "What does it matter if the fucking psychos were doing each other?"

"It … doesn't matter now." Arta knew she wouldn't be able to explain how she felt. Life clung and proliferated on the face of the planet, despite the best efforts of humans to annihilate it. And yet for each individual, it was so fragile. The drawing of a breath, the beating of a heart was all that held back the eternal dark. And so, in the most casual fashion, they'd erased two more souls from Azrael's book.

Finishing her task, Clover said abruptly, "It was almost a waste of one of my .44 rounds, seeing as I've less than twenty. I didn't expect to find any on these losers." She nudged the female Raider's chest with her boot. "The tribal markings are different, spirals not scorpions."

Arta said, "That's the sign of the Deathseekers, Jericho's old clan. He told me its supposed to represent the Circle of Death, or something like that. He seemed to find it amusing."

Clover scowled, "That's Raiders for you. Just a bundle of laughs. So are these Deathseekers likely to help us if he's with us?"

Arta shook her head, "I kinda doubt it. He was their leader, their War Chief, but he was forced to go into exile, if you can call it that, to Megaton." She thought about Lalita, Mara, Yoko … and Skar. "Since he's returned to the Wastes, between us we've killed over a dozen of their tribe, and plundered two of their strongholds. Not including those Raiders other people fighting alongside us have accounted for, probably nearly as many again."

Clover said, "Jees, over twenty! I wouldn't be surprised if that's at least half the entire tribe. Looks like we can do without their help, if any of them are left alive." She scratched her head. "And there's you worrying about us killing these two."

Arta said, "Whatever the numbers I don't like killing. I just do it out of necessity, because I must." She thought again of the picture of Azrael alone on the barren plain. _Is that how the Angel of Death thinks of his or her task? _ Ignoring Clover's rather sceptical look, she continued, "We should get up on that bridge and take a look at the metro entrance and its surroundings. If we're going to wait here for Jericho, we'll need to secure the area as best as we can."

* * *

"I think I can see Supermutants."

Arta was feeling the closest she had to vertiginous since the first day that she'd left the Vault. Although the bridge above the river was perhaps not the highest point she'd stood upon, it was the one that made her feel most insecure and in danger of falling. Negotiating large gaps in the roadway, revealing twisted girders and more than a glimpse of the shimmering waters far below, along with the faintest swaying of the structure in the wind had contributed to this unnerving sensation. And in order to obtain the required overview, they'd been forced to perch on the very edge of oblivion, where the torn edge of one bridge section ended, leaving a wide gap to the next much too far to jump. Being so close to such a dizzying drop made Arta want to take several steadying breaths.

However unsettling, she was able to take in many details of the landscape laid out far below her. She could see the translucent panels on the roof covering the metro steps, the signs outside, several wrecked vehicles, two large white statues and a flight of stairs descending to a wharf. Somewhat reassuringly, there was no immediate sign of life. It was only when she cast her gaze further across the river that she perceived the potential threat.

Peering through her scope, Clover said, "It's Supermutants all right. And they're firing at someone on our side of the river."

"Yeah, and whoever it is must be on the level of that wharf, right next to the water. But from here the promenade wall above them blocks our view."

Clover said, "The muties are at pretty long range, even for such large targets. We'd probably be wasting our bullets. The question is, do we go down and get our arses involved? And on which side?"

Arta said, "We need to take a closer look, especially at who or what the mutants are fighting. It could be … it could even be Jericho."

Clover nodded, "Whether it is or not, it makes sense to check. And we'd better move it."

Caught up in a sense of urgency, for a crazy moment Arta considered diving off the edge of the bridge into the water. Then she came to her senses, looked at the drop and shuddered.

* * *

"I'm going to use the statue to hide behind. You stay here next to this lamp post and cover me."

From their position on the promenade above the wharf, they had a clear view of the two supermutants on the opposite bank. One was clad in the heavy metal armour worn only by the stronger members their race, the Brutes. Not even bothering to take cover, it was periodically using its minigun to direct a hail of fire across the river at someone or something that Arta still couldn't see. The second mutant was no less formidable in size, but near naked and wielding merely an assault rifle. Its target was also somewhere out of sight on the wharf.

Not far in front of Arta, on a pedestal marking the end of the quay, and slightly below the level of the promenade, stood an effigy carved in white stone, a muscular human figure arms outstretched and framed within a ring. Arta judged its legs, nearly broad as tree trunks, to be large enough to shield herself from the mutants' fire, and perhaps from any hostiles on the wharf below and to her right.

"Just be careful. It's going to be difficult to jump back up again from the pedestal. You ought to let me do it." Clover's voice was lowered, although the almost constant exchanges of fire made whispering unnecessary.

"No, I'll be fine." Arta was determined to show Clover she wasn't going to let her take all the risks. In any case the situation might require tactical assessment or even diplomacy. She felt she could trust her own judgement better than the blonde's.

Creeping sideways with the statue blocking the mutant's line of sight, Arta allowed more and more of the wharf to come into her field of vision. She saw that it was indeed exactly at the level of the water, and there was a kind of short ramp projecting out into the river. Next to this jetty was a large heap of rubber tyres, which the Supermutants' opponents were using as cover.

There were two of them left alive, a man and a woman, though another body could be seen sprawled on the quay. The nearest of the Raiders sheltering behind the tyres had a classic Mohawk haircut with the spirals of his clan visible on his neck. Finding it difficult to use his submachine gun at long range against such powerful enemies, his main contribution to the battle seemed to be distracting the mutants' attention from his better-armed companion.

She was leaning out from the opposite side of the heap, peppering the right-hand mutant with assault rifle rounds. A testimony to her skill and accuracy was that she had already inflicted several wounds on its more lightly armoured torso. From her metal armour, fashioned into a bikini, Arta guessed she was of some rank within the Raiders. Her hair was dyed purple and gathered into bunches.

The Raider with the Mohawk suddenly became aware of Arta's presence, and his eyes widened. But before he could raise his weapon more than a fraction, bullets from the Vault woman's own SMG were entering his brain.

Perhaps because she was firing at the time, or because of the din caused by the Supermutant's minigun, the one surviving Raider seemed oblivious of the way her comrade had met his end. When she realised he was out of the fight, she ran from one side of the pile of tyres to the other, switching the grip on her assault rifle from her left to her right hand. Once in position, she leaned out with the stock snuggled to her outermost left shoulder and rapidly squeezed the trigger. The Brute gave a roar of pain and rage as bullets smashed into its leg.

_She did that completely without thinking. When she fired before, she was holding the rifle against her right shoulder. She's ambidextrous!_

The wounded mutant sent in another volley of 5mm shells. The woman jerked back into cover, and as she did so Arta saw her face clearly for the first time.

It was Trinny.

* * *

*It's apparently a myth that dogs only see in black and white. Tests indicate they're able to see a spectrum of colours, but more limited than humans, including shades of blue and yellow. The reason for Arta seeing the scene in monochrome should be obvious to anyone who's played through the main quest.

_Alien raygun: _several times I've found the power cells in a random encounter, but without locating the blaster. Very frustrating! I think sometimes its blocked from appearing.

_Mirelurk King's Treasure:_ Fake or not, it was rubbish, as I recall. Though not perhaps from a Mirelurk's P.O.V.

_For a crazy moment. _I've managed to jump off that bridge into the water, though it needs a run up. I imagine in reality you'd likely die, and indeed I did so several times when hitting water that was too shallow. Beats having to walk down though.

I assume an ambidextrous person would have a slight advantage in being able to lean from cover either side without exposing so much of his or her body.*


	27. You Gotta Shoot Em in the Head

Ch 27 You gotta shoot 'em in the head

As Arta stared into the clear blue of the Raider Chief's eyes, blazing with the savage fire of combat lust, she felt no great astonishment to see her in such a place and in such dire straits. It seemed part of the working of a fate which more and more shaped her actions. Indeed she felt it was something she should've _expected_. Destiny aside, they were within half a kilometre of where Trinny had ordered her Raiders to retake the Mart, and condemned Silver to a miserable end.

Trinny herself showed no inclination to freeze with surprise. The moment she became aware of Arta's gaze upon her, she reacted with the instinctive speed and ferocity of a wild animal. Arta dropped to the ground as bullets whistled over her head. With the edge of the promenade in between them, the Vault woman was almost completely protected from direct fire, though not from any grenades Trinny might choose to throw.

To pre-empt this possible danger, she shouted out hastily, "Trinny, listen to me!"

There was a pause, then the Raider's voice came, shrill with astonishment. "How the hell d'you know my name?"

"Never mind that now! There are two of us here, with decent weapons and armour. We can join with you against the mutants. Or we can help them to kill you. Your choice."

From behind the lamppost, Clover growled, "Arta, who the fuck is that? And why the fuck should we help her?"

"Shsssh!"

They heard Trinny's voice again, harsh with suspicion. "How do I know you're not going to kill me anyway?"

Feeling a sense of déjà vu, Arta replied, "You don't, but if you take much longer to decide, our grenades are gonna light up that wharf like a firework display."

There was a fractional hesitation before the reply. "Okay, do what you damn well like. I won't shoot at you. We'll have this out when the frankensteins are dead."

Arta tensed herself to get to her feet. But before she could do so, Clover's arm was on her shoulder preventing her movement. The blonde was crouched just behind, wearing a fireman's helm which she'd salvaged from one of the Raiders in Scrapyard. The smoke hood had been removed, allowing her a normal field of vision.

She said tersely, "You're going to need covering fire, and I wouldn't want to rely on Miss Congeniality down there. Is there something she's hiding behind?"

"Yes, a big pile of tyres, but …"

Without pausing for further speech, Clover sprang erect and leapt off the edge of the promenade. Arta heard a thud, a grunt and a curse. She peered cautiously over the edge. Clover seemed to have landed safely behind the tyre heap. She took up a position to the right of Trinny, who gave her the briefest of glances.

Clover shouted up, "Arta, are you ready?"

"Yes!"

"Now!"

One burst of automatic fire followed another, and Arta scrambled to her feet, to jump down onto the pedestal of the statue. Squeezing herself against its thick stone legs, she could see that Clover and Trinny were alternately popping out from behind the tyres to shoot at the mutants, both using their assault rifles.

No fire had been aimed her way yet. She might have a chance to line up a shot. Leaning out cautiously, she directed the crosshairs of her sniper scope towards the head of the Brute mini-gunner. Intersection occurred and she squeezed the trigger. The creature reeled back as though dazed. The round had evidently struck its metal helm without penetrating. Below Trinny and Clover took the opportunity to enfilade the gunner's flank, several bullets ripping into the mustard coloured flesh, before they had to duck back to avoid the second mutant's return fire.

The Brute appeared to recover, and with a roar of rage swung its minigun towards Arta. As it began to rotate, she shrank back behind the statue, squeezing her body into as narrow a profile as possible, praying that she'd calculated the angles correctly. Bullets hammered and thunked against the stone, ricocheting and sending chips of marble flying. Some of them seemed to whiz within millimetres of her thighs.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Trinny and Clover fired again. This time Arta heard the whir of the gun diminish, and the barrage of shots ceased. She peeped out cautiously. The mutant was thumping the thick barrel, and sparks flickered from the casing as it spun slowly to a halt. With a growl, the creature tossed the useless weapon aside, and shook its fists in impotent fury.

They were left free to concentrate on what seemed to be the only mutant presenting a threat. Clover and Trinny targeted its grossly fleshy arms, causing it to drop its assault rifle. Then Arta stepped out from behind the statue to aim a shot at its head. The already wounded creature staggered forward several paces before toppling into the water.

Almost simultaneously a second mighty splash was heard. The Brute had leapt into the river, and was swimming strongly towards the wharf. Salvoes of automatic fire plopped into the water around it without apparently inflicting much harm. The confusion caused by two huge bodies in near proximity underwater perhaps accounted for the inaccuracy.

Perceiving that against all the odds the Brute was getting closer to the shore, Clover reached for one of the grenades hanging from her belt and tossed it into the river. There was a tremendous _whump, _and the water boiled and seethed before being flung upwards into a spout. The mutant seemed to have sunk out of sight.

"Well thank goodness that's over. Now don't you try anything funny!" Quick as a flash, Clover caught up and swung round her Chinese assault rifle to point at Trinny. Seeing that Arta was also covering her with her submachine gun, the Raider leader lowered her weapon.

Carefully Arta clambered down from the pedestal to the level of the wharf, confident that Clover had the situation in hand. She sniffed the stagnant smell of river water and the odour of partly melted rubber. There were several ammunition crates and a first aid box beside the tyre pile.

Turning back to her companion, she said, "Let's collect the useful loot, and then we can … _Clover_, _look out, behind you!"_

Water rained down like hail, as with a bellow all the more terrifying for being totally unexpected, the Supermutant Brute erupted from beneath the surface and leapt onto the jetty. For a significant moment Clover seemed paralysed with shock, then she spun round and looked up to face the monstrosity towering over her, dripping blood and water. Before she could bring the assault rifle to bear, the mutant swung down with its clenched fist, striking her on the crest of the fire helmet. Clover gave a groan and her legs buckled under her as she fell limp to the ground.

The Brute gave a shout of triumph. "Die, humans, _die!_" it screeched. Ignoring both Clover's slumped body and her dropped weapon, it charged straight at Arta.

For a split second she too felt mesmerised by the huge, onrushing bulk of the creature and its enraged, hate-filled eyes and leering mouth. It seemed as though her arm was raising her smg with nightmare slowness, almost as though it had become detached from her body. And then the gun began to fire, the bullets travelling upwards to strike the creature just below the bridge of its nose. She could hear the thunder of Trinny's assault rifle beside her, could see multiple bullet holes opening in the creature's head and heart, the momentum of its charge carrying it on, to fall like a tower towards her. She rolled aside, but her lower body became pinned beneath the mutant's outstretched arms.

As she struggled to free herself, she heard the sound of Trinny reloading her gun. Anticipating her next move, Arta began to do likewise. Trinny stepped over the dead body of the mutant pointing her rifle downwards with obvious murderous intent. Completing the reload, Arta took aim with the smg, and fired a short burst into Trinny's left arm. The Raider leader screamed and dropped her weapon. But with her right hand she drew a combat knife from her belt and threw herself upon Arta. Still impeded by the mutant's corpse, Arta desperately tried to hold her off. The downward force of Trinny's body was pushing the dagger towards her breast, closer and closer, until Arta could feel it pricking against her combat armour, inches away from piercing her heart. But blood was pouring from Trinny's wounds; her arms were weakening. With a mighty effort Arta twisted the knife away from her, finally managed to free her legs, and used them to thrust the Raider backwards.

She trained the submachine gun on Trinny. "Stay still if you want to live." Trinny lay gasping. Her eyes glared hate but she did not try to move. Arta kicked the assault rifle well out of her reach.

With a moment of respite, the Vault woman dashed over to where Clover lay on the quay. To her immense relief, the blonde was breathing without difficulty, although she was still unconscious. Removing the dinted helmet, Arta examined the crown of Clover's head. Bruising seemed the only sign of damage, but she could not rule out internal bleeding. She decided the best way to prevent any further harm was to inject some med-x and a stimpak as close to Clover's neck as seemed prudent. Then she made sure she was in a safe and comfortable position.

Having done everything she could for Clover, Arta returned to Trinny.

The Raider had disobeyed her instructions to the extent of self-medicating herself with a stimpak and using her remaining good arm to put pressure on the wound. Nevertheless it looked probable that without further treatment she would rapidly bleed to death. Arta searched within the first aid kit for some bandages, began to bind them tightly around Trinny's upper left arm.

Trinny grimaced but made no resistance. "What are you doing?"

"I'm saving your life, if you'll let me." Arta hoped that she'd applied the tourniquet correctly. Her father had taught her basic first aid techniques, though more advanced surgery, such as would be needed to remove bullets from a wound, was beyond her capabilities. She was hoping that if the bindings slowed the flow of blood, then the application of drugs would do the rest, in the short run at least.

"Why would you want to do that? I tried to kill you!" Trinny's voice was weaker. Arta injected more medication into her arm. Now would be the crucial time. Depending on how much blood she'd already lost, the Raider leader would either die very quickly or pull through.

"Lie still and rest."

Through clenched teeth, Trinny gasped, "If I'm going to die, then I want some questions answered first: who are you, why are you helping me, and how do you know who I am?"

Arta tried to gauge whether withholding or answering the questions was more likely to distress her patient. She decided to cautiously tender some information, and see the effect of that.

"I'm someone who knows you far better than you realise," she said. "I want to keep you alive because I think you're important."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean? What do you know about me?" A slight relaxation in the Raider's voice and posture indicated the drugs had at least relieved the agony she must have been feeling.

"Many things. I know that since you were a little girl you've been able to use both hands equally well. I know that your hair is naturally blonde. I know that old wound on your right shoulder was made by a dagger."

"Nothing that you couldn't tell from simply looking or guessing." Trinny sounded defiant, and Arta observed her closely. Was her voice a little stronger?

She said, "I know a lot more than that. I know you were born in Springvale School in the summer of the year two thousand, two hundred and fifty three. I know your mother's name. I know your father's name. I know that on your ninth birthday he gave you a dagger with a blue handle. It bore the first three letters of your name, the name you hated so much that you would allow no one amongst your tribe to call you by it. Because it reminded you of the father who first gave it to you, the father you betrayed. And I know you, _Katrina_."

* * *

"There's word from Megaton," the mercenary said.

Burke looked up from the massage table with slight irritation. He'd known that mercenaries from Talon company tended not to stand on ceremony, but they could at least knock before entering. On another occasion, it might have been more embarrassing.

He said, "Just a little further down and to the right, Susan." Then to the waiting Talon: "Yes, go on."

Seemingly unfazed that his employer was nude save for a towel, the man continued impassively, "The report is that Colin Moriarty is dead."

Noting the precise phrase the Talon had used, Burke asked quickly, "Is there any doubt about it?"

The mercenary paused as though to consider his best answer. Then he said. "None of our people actually saw the body, but a ghoul is running his former establishment. The word in the town is that he killed Moriarty."

"Really, a ghoul, you say?"

"Yes."

_It may be better this way, _Burke thought. The mission might proceed more smoothly if the Kindred weren't involved. _Sam, how clever you've been._

He asked, "Has Walsh reported in?"

"Negative. His location and status are unknown."

_Perhaps he prefers it that way. Still there's always the chance he's been eliminated or turned. I must take my own precautions._

Burke said, "Inform Commander Weinstein I require his presence. And remember to knock next time."

The Talon saluted, rather insolently Burke noted, and took his leave.

Susan Lancaster asked, "D'you want me to do your other side?"

"Show some sense, woman!" Burke snapped. "Do you think I want you playing with my cock while I'm giving orders to my Chief of Staff? Get out!"

The courtesan mouthed an obscenity behind Burke's back, before shrugging on her dressing gown, and closing a door she would have preferred to slam. Burke was left alone with his thoughts.

_Now the game is really afoot. And the spoils will go to the cunning, the swift and the strong._

* * *

The Raider said nothing for a long time, and Arta began to fear the worst. Then she spoke in a voice charged with emotion, "How can you know all this? Who _are _you?"

"My name is Artemesia Wendell. I'm a friend of your father, Jericho. He's alive, or at least he was when I last saw him. We are going to wait here until he comes. Then you can meet and talk with him."

Katrina essayed a weak laugh. "Why the fuck would I want to do that? I hate him, and he hates me. If you're so much in the know, you'd realise that."

Arta tried to assess whether the measures she'd taken had been enough. Katrina was still deathly pale, and looked weak. On the other hand she was able to speak clearly and, according to her own lights, rationally. There was hope that she was going to survive, but Arta could only guess whether anything she said to her would have a positive impact on her condition or state of mind.

"No, I don't think he hates you."

"Of course he does! I killed his beloved, that bitch Kilshandra. He'll never forgive me for that. Not that I care, especially as I'm probably going to die."

_Just keep her talking. _Arta said, "I think you're wrong. In a way, he's already forgiven you. Or at least accepted what happened. And maybe you won't die. That is, if you don't give up."

Katrina's head sunk back, and she closed her eyes. "Why shouldn't I? What have I got to live for? I'm a failure as leader. The clan's been driven from almost all its strongholds. We no longer have the strength to hold them. Most of the surviving Deathseekers are holed up in the metro like rats in a trap. It's only a matter of time before Bethesda or the Brotherhood comes to finish us off. If the ghouls haven't got us by then." Her face showed disgust. "The old man would be laughing at me."

Remembering the history she'd uncovered in the Vault, particularly with respect to Winston Churchill, Arta said, "Nearly all leaders fail in the end. Unless they're killed or are smart enough to retire. It's in the nature of things. You're only as good as your last victory. Your dad knows that as well as anyone."

Katrina gave a grunt that seemed nevertheless to acknowledge the truth of Arta's words. "For the fount of all wisdom, you're pretty young. You seem to have all the answers."

Arta shook her head. "I wish I did. Then I wouldn't have to risk my arse looking for them."

"Or mine. And especially not my head, ow!"

"Clover!" Arta was delighted. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone just drilled through my brain." The blonde's eyes were creased as she tenderly felt her the top of her head. "I don't think I'll swap my helmet for a cowgirl hat until we're clear of DC."

"Perhaps you'll need one that's less dented. That was a lucky escape. You'd better sit quiet for a while, you may have concussion."

"Maybe, but we can't afford to stay here long. The only way out is along the wharf or into the river. If any more mutants or Raiders come strolling along, we'll be completely snookered."

Arta frowned. "You're right," she said. "But moving Katrina's gonna be difficult. She's still pretty weak."

Clover looked the Raider up and down with a sneering expression. "Sorry, you didn't get round to explaining why we can't leave the crazy broad to die."

Katrina grinned. "This bitch talks more like my language. We ought to have her in the tribe."

Ignoring the byplay and implied ingratitude, Arta said levelly, "This is Jericho's daughter, the head of the Deathseeker clan. Her name is Katrina, or Trinny if you prefer."

Clover merely raised an eyebrow. "Well," she said. "If genes have anything to do with it, that makes her a lying, treacherous albeit resilient little cuntlicker. So I ask again."

"How d'you think Jericho's gonna react if he finds out we abandoned his own flesh and blood?"

"He isn't gonna," Clover pointed out, "if we slit her throat straight away."

"She's a natural," Katrina tittered. Arta was not amused.

"That's not how we do things," she said firmly.

Clover folded her arms. "And how do you propose we take her along? Maybe you want the ghouls and mutants to give us a hand?"

Before Arta could reply, Katrina interrupted her. "Kill me now," she said. "Or return me to my people. I don't give a shit which."

"She said it." Clover reached for the discarded combat knife. Arta caught her arm angrily.

"I meant what I said!" To Katrina: "Where can we take you? To the Mart?"

"I already told you we've been forced out. Some of us are left in the Farrugut metro, in the upper levels, not very far in."

"Could they give you medical assistance? Perform surgery perhaps?"

"We've got a basic sawbones. If she's still alive, then yes, maybe."

"Right in that case …" but Clover interrupted, and Arta could sense she was as close to rebellion as she'd ever been.

"This is totally fucked up! You want us to go walking into the arms of swine that consider torture and murder to be home entertainment? You've lost your marbles!"

Contemplating Clover's furious expression, Arta considered what lever she could use to move her. She played her trump card.

"I already said you needn't follow me," she said calmly. "I'll go with her alone if necessary. Not to mention that getting to GNR involves travelling through that part of the metro anyway."

She could see her words had had a powerful effect, stopping Clover in mid-rant. With a thrill she thought, _I hold her heart in my hands! She's not going to abandon me so easily!_

The blonde said in a more conciliatory tone, "Arta, you've gotta be reasonable about this."

"I am being reasonable. We're most likely gonna have to get past those Raiders anyway. At least with their leader in our hands we've got more of a chance."

"Assuming they actually care much about her welfare, and that we can trust the conniving bitch!"

Looking at Katrina's mocking blue eyes and slightly twisted grin, Arta couldn't help sharing Clover's doubts. Once again there seemed little alternative however. The sun was sinking westward towards the mart, and the vast cumuli overhead were shot through with bands of yellow and white light. Arta wished that she could wing her way up and nestle amidst the cloud castles and palaces she could imagine floating there.

_Instead I'm going underground again. Will I ever return to see the sun in a cloud-filled sky?_

* * *

"Shit, I told Lorel to leave someone guarding the entrance. The slack fuckers are gonna hear about this!"

The chain gates of the metro had swung behind them with a resounding clang. They were supporting Katrina between them, lending her a shoulder each. Clover held the Blackhawk in her right hand, which meant Arta was forced to deploy her smg in her left, although she hadn't the Raider leader's natural ambidexterity. Katrina herself seemed stronger, and Arta wondered whether she was exaggerating her inability to manage unassisted. Her anger at least sounded genuine, though her words were punctuated by grunts of discomfort.

The wide underground corridor in front of them was adequately if intermittently illuminated. Some natural light from the entrance and from small skylights overhead still penetrated. To all appearances the metro was deserted and the close, still air made the total absence of sound seem so much more oppressive.

Katrina nodded towards an open door, leading to a narrow side passage. "That's where they should be." Raising her voice, she called, "Lorel, Klaus, get your arses out here right now!"

Her voice echoed hollowly before the silence swallowed it. Arta had experienced a tremor of anticipation at the thought of encountering Silver's killers, and now felt a chill of fear at their failure to appear.

Clover detached herself from Katrina. "I'll go check." She glided away into the passageway. Arta waited biting her lip. Then they heard her voice. "The lights are on, but nobody's home."

Arta helped Katrina stumble through the short passageway into the attached rooms. As Clover had indicated, the strong strip lighting overhead suggested a local source of power was operating. The harsh unforgiving illumination showed up the cracked and peeling plaster, the grime, filth and detritus of centuries, the wreckage of filing cabinets, tables and chairs. Yet also the signs of recent habitation. Dirty bedding and mattresses lay about, almost empty bottles and discarded medical syringes perched on stained Formica tables, along with half eaten meals. There was a stale, sweaty smell, the odour of unwashed humanity.

Clover said, "Raiders were here recently, or I'm a Mirelurk. Filthy fuckers." Aside to Katrina, she added, "No offence."

Ignoring Clover's implication, Katrina said, "They were here all right. And now they're gone. Just like they … got abducted by aliens. Or more likely, skedaddled. I knew I couldn't trust Klaus, but Lorel I thought … well it shows you can't let anyone close."

_Were they … lovers? _Arta speculated. Not that the act of making love seemed to have any special significance for Raiders other than binding them within the tribe. She gave a shiver. The sudden mass disappearance, without any sign of violence, recalled to her ancient legends of ghost ships left abandoned and empty. A name lurked in the back of her mind … but it was forgotten.

Clover's words showed she was thinking along the same lines. "This is spooky, like the tales I heard when I was a kid about things in the metro that would eat your soul."

There was a moment of unnerving silence, before Katrina gave a snort. "Tales to frighten children! There's lost souls somewhere around here for sure, but its your flesh and blood they want. Like I said, the cowardly fucks probably mutinied."

Clover asked, "So what do we do now?"

Arta said, "We'll have to go on, and hope we meet them further inside." She asked Katrina, "Are you gonna be okay? We need you with us."

"Good enough. I might even be able to make shift to stand on my own, though I'll need help on the stairs. And when we find them, I'm gonna kick some butt if it kills me."

Coming out of the side passage brought them around a curve in the main corridor. A set of turnstiles lay ahead, but the tunnel beyond was filled with a massive rock fall.

Clover said, "There's no way through that."

Katrina said, "Through that door on the right, stairs go down, then up again until you reach the level of the tracks. Probably used to be a maintenance passage to the generator."

Outside the door the Raider had indicated, Arta could see the bodies of several dead Mole rats, and approaching it she could hear the distant sounds of machinery. The stairwell went down steeply for several flights, but Katrina was able to manage without too much help. As they descended, the noise and vibration became louder: a rhythmic pounding and whirring which made Arta imagine she was within the body of a huge metal beast, listening to its panting breaths and heartbeat.

They emerged into a room with walls considerably higher than its length and breath, occupied by two chugging machines, their function and workings obscured by darkness and solid steel casings. Black iron stairs rose towards a bridge which spanned the room at a level above their heads. The only light source was high up, and left much of the room in shadow.

Katrina said, "Listen!"

Over the din of the machines, they could distinctly hear something else, booming from the walls as it descended from on high, the sound of someone singing jauntily:

_I'm getting married in the morning,_

_Ding dong, the bells are gonna chime!_

_Pull out the stopper! Let's have a whopper!_

_But get me to the church on time!_

The women glanced uneasily at one another. The voice sounded strange, although not particularly threatening. After a moment's hesitation, Arta signalled to the others to wait, then began to cautiously mount the stairs.

The singer meanwhile had embarked on another verse:

_I gotta be there in the morning,_

_Spruced up and lookin' in me prime,_

_Girls come and kiss me;_

_Show how you'll miss me,_

_But get me to the church on time!_

Reaching the top, Arta paused to survey her surroundings. On her immediate left was an open door from which the singing was coming. To her right the bridge continued past two half open gates into semi-darkness. Several half-naked and headless corpses were lying nearby. On closer inspection these seemed unusually withered, despite the blood on them looking quite fresh. The fingernails of each were long and claw-like.

Arta took a deep breath, held her submachine gun ready and stepped through the door. She found herself in a small room. Sitting with his feet up on a desk was a man in a white suit. Judging from his greying hairs he was in his late forties to early fifties. He had a prominent nose and startlingly blue eyes, although they were somewhat bloodshot. There was something of the air of the aristocrat in the features of his handsomely lined face. However his clothes were crumpled, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, his tie pulled loose. A variety of whisky, wine, vodka and beer bottles, many of them empty, were stacked on the desk and shelves nearby.

The man regarded Arta with a humorous expression, seemingly unperturbed by her sudden appearance. "Good afternoon … " he drew a rounded metal object from his jacket pocket, examined it, then shook it. "Or as it may be, good evening! Eliza my dear, how kind of you to come round! Sit down, have a drink! I'm afraid in this wretched country a decent cup of tea is out of the question." With an abrupt gesture, the man swept some of the empties onto the floor, and patted the cleared space on the desk suggestively. His accent and style somewhat resembled that of Andy the Vault robot, the words slightly slurred, shot through with world-weary cynicism, though he enunciated them with the ease of someone accustomed to being intoxicated more often than not.

Keeping in mind that he might have a concealed weapon despite being obviously drunk, Arta decided to maintain a wary posture. She tried not to sound unduly hostile however. "I'm sorry, but I'm not Eliza. My name is Arta."

The man maintained his unruffled air. "Forgive me, my dear, for making a joke which in your understandable ignorance you failed to appreciate. I was jocularly referring to the leading lady of a pre-war musical." He briefly changed the intonation of his voice to the one in which he'd just sung. _"Just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins, just you wait, you'll be sorry but your tears will be too late."_ He extended a hand: "I'm Jeffrey Bernard …" he pronounced the 'a' of his surname like 'ah', "and I'm very pleased to meet you."

Arta gingerly took the hand, found her own pumped vigorously. "Likewise Jeffrey. May I ask what you're doing here?"

Bernard gave a chortle of mirth. "Doing? I'm getting bloody pissed, as should be obvious. Having found a little piece of heaven without Raiders, ghouls or mutants in it. None alive, anyway."

Arta said, "None alive? You haven't seen any Raiders, have you?"

"If I had, I would've run a mile by now. As for the zombies outside, they were here when I arrived. Transformed from the walking dead to the totally fucking dead."

Arta said uncertainly, "Oh, those bodies were ghouls?"

Bernard raised his eyebrows. "My dear Arta, I can see that like Eliza Doolittle you're in need of an education. Hullo, who's this?"

Arta turned slightly to see Clover standing with a panting Katrina. "Jeffrey these are my … _friends _… Clover and Trinny."

Somewhat more grudgingly, Bernard said, "Charmed, I'm sure." With a glance at Arta "Odd company you keep. A pity, I was hoping for some civilised conversation."

"She … she's not really a Raider, only dressed like one." Arta frowned fiercely at Katrina as she essayed this barefaced lie. To her relief, the Raider leader merely returned her an exaggerated grin.

Bernard shrugged, "In that case, come join the party … we'll make it a bloody fancy dress one. Grab yourself some booze."

Both Katrina and Clover responded to Bernard's offer with enthusiasm, causing Arta some concern, until she considered that she was dying for a drink herself. _Perhaps just one or two, along with some food, and we'll be on our way. _

* * *

"So Jeff," Clover slurred, leaning over Bernard with drunken familiarity. "Tell us why you speak in that funny way of yours."

"Funny way? _Funny way!"_ Bernard attempted to raise an outraged finger, ended up waving it half-heartedly. "I'll have you know this is the _Queen's _English I'm speaking. We invented the ruddy language which you colonists seem to have forgotten how to speak properly. Try this: _the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain._"

"_The fucking what does where … _ and what are you talking about, colonists?" Katrina growled, tipping back another bottle.

"Quite simply, my dear, that at one time we, the British, ruled your great big country from our small island, because you yanks were, so to speak, our offspring. Then you decided most impertinently to rebel, and it all went downhill from there."

"And where is this … hic … myth …hic …cal island? Clover enquired, struggling with the syllables.

"'Snot mythical. Just across the jolly old Atlantic ocean. Which was a real bugger to cross. _Swan swam across the sea, well swam swan._"

"Then how did you come to be here, Jeffrey?" Arta had lost count of the number of drinks they'd imbibed.

"Long story really. All started with that blasted nuclear war. The US was set on scrapping with the Chinese and called on its trusty allies to back it up. Canadians told them to fuck off. And we Brits reckoned if they weren't bothered, it was certainly none of our affair, China being on exactly the other side of the world.

But the US president, a real bastard called James Earl Kennedy, didn't appreciate the refusal. Or in his memorable phrase, _"Those who ain't for us, are agin us."_ So he invaded Canada, and when the atom bombs started a droppin', he spared a few megatons for his former pals across the sea. Enough to devastate our major population centres and cause bloody anarchy to break out.

Unlike here though, the government managed to get back in the saddle. But only after clamping down with a regime so repressive and brutal the Nazis would've been proud of it, and which we're still having to take up the arse two centuries later.

Occasionally some of us try to get out. Like my family. The Channel was too well patrolled, so we set off across the Atlantic in a sailing sloop. Damn silly idea really, the chances of us making it were one in a thousand. Then when we alighted upon Plymouth Rock, a bloody great mutant ate my dad and the rest of us scattered and bolted. I've been on the run and on the booze ever since." Bernard sipped his wine reflectively. "Miss the old place something rotten though. _In Herefordshire, Hertfordshire and Hampshire hurricanes hardly ever happen._"

"_In Herefordshire … _what?" Arta puzzled. "Aren't you grateful to have escaped from your dictatorial regime?"

"Not really. You can't get any decent booze over here. The beer's laughably weak, the vodka's a Mexican imitation of the proper Ruski stuff, and as for that Jack fucking Daniels pretending to be whisky …"

"But surely … some of the people are nice?"

"No … arseholes all of them. _Arse_holes," Bernard repeated with emphasis. "I suppose it's polite to make an exception for present company. Even if they aren't able to speak proper. Now pay attention!" With a spoon he beat a simple rhythm on the bottles in front of him. _"How KIND of you to let me come. _See, I'll do it again. _How KIND …"_

Whop! Bernard clutched his jaw. Swaying on his feet, he said woozily, "This chin isn't glass, it's a hundred percent British steel." His head flopped forward and he sprawled amongst the empty bottles.

Arta and Katrina turned to look enquiringly at Clover, who had delivered the uppercut. The blonde shrugged in an offhand fashion.

"What? I could put up with the rest of his snide remarks. But when he started taking the piss _sexually _I just snapped."

* * *

_Thus did Grognak summon to him all the warriors of the underworld, dour-handed dwarves in their prime, and the sound of their hammers beating in the deep mines was like the clashing of a thousand cymbals …_

Arta jerked awake; it felt like legions of dwarves were hammering near at hand; then she realised that it was the sound of the underground machinery vibrating in sympathy with the throbbing in her head. As near as she could estimate from her pipboy, she'd slept for less than an hour. Bernard was still unconscious, asleep or dead drunk; Clover and Katrina remained vigilant, talking quietly to one another.

_Let this be a lesson to me ... no, let this be a lesson to us … not to … never to … _Arta tried to focus her thoughts, then attempted to stand in a balanced way. It wasn't as easy as usual. _Can I shoot a fly off a brahmin's head … or was it a gnat off it's nose?" _Arta reflected that Grognak had won some of his most famous victories while near blind drunk. A pity then that she wasn't a six-foot plus sword-swinging barbarian.

At least one possible benefit of the unexpected drinking session was that the rose-tinted haze of intoxication seemed to have brought all of them closer together, even Clover and Katrina. Perhaps a little _too_ close. Arta felt a surge of jealousy, observing the two of them whispering and giggling, heads tilted towards one other. Katrina, as Jericho had admitted, had few of her father's genetic markings. _Her mother must have been stunningly beautiful._ _And I suppose, despite the sniping, they've actually got more in common than I have with either of them. _Arta pondered the Raider's remark that Clover was a 'natural'. She didn't want Katrina to extend the tribe's usual 'welcome'.

"C'mon!" she said. "We've got to get going if we're gonna catch up with those Raiders."

"Enjoy your little sleep, did you?" Katrina jibed.

"It's lucky you've got us watching your back, _lover,_" Clover added, making the endearment sound like an accusation.

_And it's as well too that they can both take their drink better than me._ _I suppose I've deserved those cutting remarks._

* * *

The depths of the metro were an altogether different experience for Arta than the upper levels. Gleaming tracks and narrow tunnels curved away into the distance, seemingly without end. Drifting vapours took on an eerie sheen from the sporadic lighting, while ink black shadows lay in the intervals between platforms and the narrow gaps formed by lines of wrecked coaches. The feeling of hidden danger was almost palpable. Most of all there was a sense of the tons of rock and earth pressing down above her, recalling the claustrophobia of Vault existence, and made worse by the evidence of tunnels which had collapsed and become impassable.

Coming out of the maintenance passageways and straight onto the tracks immediately confronted her with an important decision. Although rubble blocked one side of the metro, it was possible to follow the tunnel northbound past the wreckage of a train or southbound into darkness.

She turned to Katrina. "Have you any idea which direction your tribe may have gone?"

The Raider leader shook her head. "Either way seems equally pointless. North leads to Friendship Heights station, which is Black Scorpion territory, south leads to Chevy Chase in the heart of mutant-infested DC. Why d'you think I ordered them to stay put? We simply weren't strong enough to establish ourselves in those areas."

"What's your gut instinct?"

Katrina shrugged. "I suppose I'd rather be eaten by mutants or ghouls than tortured to death by those Bethesda bastards. South, I suppose."

"Clover, what d'you reckon?"

The blonde rubbed her small nose thoughtfully. "South's the way to get to GNR, according to Trinny's dad. If she's up to it, we may as well take her in that direction as any other. Like she says, it's a choice between different gross ways to die, lover."

Katrina said, "I think I can stand and even walk a bit on my own. Give me a weapon, and there's a chance we might make it."

Arta shared a look with Clover; the message in one another's eyes was easily understood.

"Sorry but no."

Katrina's ponytails drooped as she bowed her head. "It's no surprise that you don't trust me. All I can say is its my arse on the line too."

Clover said, "Enough gabbing. Let's do this."

The southbound part of the tunnel was mainly in darkness, something which Arta was more inclined to fear than to be grateful for. It might shroud them from their enemies, but left them partially blind too, and the creatures that inhabited this place would be more accustomed to the pitch black. As she picked her way carefully and quietly through hidden piles of detritus, the absence of light began to work on her imagination. She seemed to see the shapes of fiends in all kinds of ghastly postures looming out of the dark. There were noises too. Small sounds which might only be the scuttling of rats or roaches or the gloop of irradiated pools. Or something horrible creeping up just behind her.

They rounded a bend in the tunnel, and Arta could perceive from the limited illumination that some way ahead the metro widened into a large open area, presumably a station. She could distinguish the outline of a train coach, and noted that two stairways ascended towards an upper level, a walled gallery overlooking the lower part of the station. With a chill, she thought she could see the outline of a figure walking to and fro, human-like but twisted in shape. Or were her eyes playing tricks on her again?

She was about to go on, when Katrina moved her hand from her shoulder to tug her ear in the darkness. She paused and listened. Into the silence faint sounds intruded; like the padding of large, soft feet not far behind them. The footsteps stopped abruptly, to be followed by a noise like the briefest exhalation of air, a gasp or even a snarl.

She found herself holding her breath. Her scalp was pricking and running with cold sweat. After what seemed like an age waiting and listening, she forced her legs to move forward.

The footfalls behind began again, and there seemed to be more of them.

Katrina hissed, "For fuck's sake, give me a gun before it's too late!"

The station was before them, wreathed with vapours curling like mist in the pools of light. And now the sounds were all around.

Clover drew her magnum and handed it to Katrina, before unslinging her rifle. She whispered, "Stand back to back, put the light on and get ready."

They formed a knot, with Clover facing towards the station, Arta covering the tunnel, and Katrina between them. The Vault woman gripped her submachine gun tightly, drew a steadying breath and switched on her pipboy light.

She heard snarling gasps from all directions, followed by a flapping sound like many bare feet racing forwards; then the almost heart stopping thunder of the Chinese assault rifle right behind her. Into the circle of light cast by the pipboy burst a wildly running, half-naked figure, closing on her with such speed that she had barely time to raise her weapon or to register the details of its appearance. She got the impression of corded muscles standing out from beneath withered flesh, a skeletal torso in which each rib bone could be clearly seen, a hairless skull with gnashing teeth and eyes like glass marbles bulging frenziedly. A long arm with claw-like fingers whipped backwards in preparation for delivering a lethal blow. Then bullets from her chattering smg ripped the creature's snarling head from its sinewy shoulders.

As though in a nightmare where everything else seemed to be moving faster, she swung her gun to fire at the second onrushing ghoul which was mere paces behind the first. The last few rounds from the clip struck its chest, causing it to stagger back before the gun went dry. Arta reached down to draw her _shishkebab_, igniting it and slashing out a mere microsecond before the creature had gathered itself to spring. The ghoul recoiled from the flames but still did not fall. Arta twisted her body to allow herself to make a full swing. As she did so, she caught sight of Clover wielding her rifle like a club to fend off two attackers. Then the Blackhawk spat fire, and a ghoul's head burst asunder. Clover leapt into the air to deliver an explosive kick which drove back the second feral threatening her, until Katrina finished it with another headshot.

Arta made a long sweeping stroke with her _shishkebab _to decapitate the remaining ghoul, and the attack ceased as suddenly as it had begun. She waited for Clover to reload, before sheathing her sword and following suit. The blonde's shoulder was dripping blood.

Arta asked anxiously, "Do you need to take a stimpak? It … it's not infectious, is it?"

"They're ghouls not vampires!" Katrina seemed to find Arta's fears amusing.

"I'll be alright," Clover said sturdily. "But by the sounds there's more of them out there somewhere." Aside to Katrina: "Thanks for saving my butt, by the way."

The Raider leader made a dismissive gesture. "Like I said, all our butts are endangered. And I'm beginning to think we've come the wrong way. If the clan's still alive and nearby, there shouldn't be so many ferals around here."

Clover said, "You're probably right, but we're gonna have to get through them eventually, one way or another."

Arta said, "Our priority for the present is finding Trinny's people. If they're not here, then we ought to go back."

_Am I making the right decision? Or have I lost my nerve at the thought of facing those creatures again?_

* * *

It was a familiar situation to him, had occurred a hundred times or more, yet so long ago that he had forgotten what it _felt _like. A line of warriors, weapons raised and ready, tensely awaiting battle.

Waiting on _his _word of command.

The enemy was in sight, coming on in a dense phalanx around their leader. Their point man would, if he was any good at his job, be alert for traps such as landmines. Should he spot any he would warn his comrades; if he missed them, then he alone would suffer for his carelessness.

But this one he would not detect, because it had been concealed so as to be only visible to someone facing in the _opposite _direction. And it would not explode prematurely because the proximity detonator had been removed.

The sniper rifle he was sighting through was not one of great quality. He'd possessed many better in the past. But he was still confident, _damn confident_, that he could shoot the mine from this angle and range. Sometimes the oldest tricks were the best.

The point man had stepped into the area illuminated by flames from the rubble fire. Being able to see a good way in front of him would probably make him feel cocksure. Meanwhile the enemy was walking _en masse _straight into the trap.

With the crosshair over the mine, he squeezed the trigger.

The initial explosion was followed by a chain of secondary ones. The screams and panicked cries were _very _familiar. And now the moment, _his _moment had arrived.

"Open fire!" From all sides his warriors were shooting down the survivors, with automatics, hunting rifles, pistols, shotguns. Grenades were held ready to lob at any reinforcements arriving. The enemy was being cut down like wheat. And he remembered, he _really _remembered how it felt to command troops in battle.

* * *

"I think we may be on the right track." Katrina knelt by the body of a feral ghoul. "Someone killed this not that long ago, by the looks within hours rather than days. Ten millimetre rounds too. So at least we know it wasn't Supermutants. They never use them."

The group of corpses was in a recess between the two metro lines, well past the point where they'd initially entered the underground. Not far to the north was another station, several beams of light piercing through the darkness from holes in the ceiling.

Clover said, "Listen up!"

Though distorted by the tunnel acoustics, the sound was easy enough to recognise.

Arta said, "Gunfire!"

Clover said, "It's coming closer; quickly, hide!"

They had only a short time to wait. Sporadic shooting could be heard, along with fierce shouts, and the crump of a grenade. A woman's voice was calling commands.

"Fall back … steady … hold your fire, hold it for Christ's sake!"

Katrina exclaimed, "I know who that is!" Grunting with the effort, she dragged herself to the side of the left hand tunnel, and shouted, "Lorel! Over here! Hurry!"

Arta peeped out cautiously behind her. Only metres away, she could see a group of four Raiders, the spirals of the Deathseeker clan visible on their necks and bare shoulders. Three of them were facing away from her, weapons held ready. The fourth she immediately recognised as Katrina's lieutenant Lorel, the tall Raider with double fans of black hair and flashing, beryl green eyes.

Lorel was looking at Katrina with astonishment. "Chief? I thought you were dead!" Seeing Arta, she added, "Who's this outlander?"

"Obviously I'm not dead!" Katrina snapped. "Just tell me what the fuck's going on!"

"We … we ambushed Bethesda, but we were outnumbered and low on ammunition, so we've had to retreat." As Lorel spoke, another Raider appeared out of the darkness to the north, rolled sideways across the tracks, and started firing. The Deathseekers replied with a volley of shots, and the Raider jerked and lay still beside the rails.

"You did _what? _Okay, never mind, how many have we lost?"

"One or two at most. Klaus is covering the other flank with his squad. We're still in fair shape apart from nearly running out of bullets."

Arta could almost see the cogs whirring in Katrina's head as she assessed the tactical situation. "Right. We'll try to hold them here. Get everybody back under this arch."

The three Raiders responded quickly to Lorel's barked commands, and took shelter in the space between the tunnels, while giving Arta and Clover mistrustful looks.

Katrina explained tersely, "These people are … helping us for now. Just ignore them and get ready. Now would be a good time to use any melee weapons you've got."

One of the Raiders produced a cleaver, another a metal rod with a curved end. Taking her cue, Arta drew her _shishkebab, _provoking several muttered whispers of surprise. Clover was trying to catch her eye. The Vault woman surmised that she was questioning whether they should be involved in this fight, and suggesting they sneak away at a suitable opportunity. In response she frowned, and shook her head severely.

Firing could be heard on their right, presumably from Klaus's squad. Then suddenly from the left-hand tunnel, a horde of at least half a dozen Raiders appeared, brandishing a variety of weapons. In the uncertain light, their scorpion tattoos seemed to ripple as though they were alive.

Clover's assault rifle sprayed into the front rank, while Katrina and Lorel started to pick off those trying to deploy their firearms from within the packed mass of bodies. Then, with a deep-throated roar, the rest of the Deathseekers charged. Arta was half a pace behind as the two forces collided with a shock and a clash of weapons that she could almost feel. In the confusion of close combat, the clan markings seemed the only way to tell apart friend from foe. She hacked at a woman with a buzzing chain saw, causing her to shriek as her clothes and hair caught fire. Next a Raider with an angry-looking scorpion on his bare shoulder faced her, lifting high his sledgehammer. Arta parried the shaft with her sword; thrust the man backwards with her free hand.

Then she blinked. Almost unbelievably, the Raider she was fending off was the same she'd forced to flee Scrapyard with a warning of doom. And the man clearly recognised her all too well.

"The Angel of Death!"

Throwing aside his burning sledgehammer, he turned to flee. And now on every side of her Bethesda warriors were breaking away from the melee, some dropping weapons in their eagerness to escape, taking up the cry, screaming and shouting in panic.

"The flaming sword! The Angel of Death! Run for it!"

Arta slashed at a Raider from behind, setting him aflame and adding to the confusion, but there was almost no need. The rout of the Black Scorpions was total, those fleeing colliding with and panicking others coming up from behind. The Deathseekers were pursuing, shooting and cutting them down right into the station itself.

Arta could see that this was where the metro tunnels reached a dead end, half of a destroyed train emerging from beneath a huge avalanche of rocks. The fleeing rabble were funnelling towards long-immobilized escalators, jamming together and falling over themselves in their efforts to mount them and escape towards the safety of the upper levels. In this aim they faced a new peril; another group of Deathseekers had emerged from the tunnel opposite, catching them in a murderous crossfire.

The battle was effectively over. The last few survivors were scrambling to the top of the stairs.

From across the station, a gruff voice barked: "Let the rest of the fuckers go! They can tell their tale to whatever's left of their tribe."

The sneering intonation was unmistakable. Arta's heart leapt.

"Who gave that order?" Katrina limped into the station, assisted by Clover. The Raider leader looked furious. Seizing Lorel by the shoulders, she shouted, "Why have you disobeyed me? Which of you dumb fucks ordered this … this _suicide_?"

Lorel put up no resistance, allowing herself to be shaken. Finally she ventured, "S, sorry Chief. We had no choice. Orders from … from higher up."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Katrina shrieked. She struck Lorel across the face. "As far as you're concerned, the only command higher than mine is God's. And he doesn't exist!"

There was the tread of a heavy footfall behind her, the sound of a match being struck.

"Sorry … who were you saying don't exist?"

Katrina turned. Her mouth fell open.

When her voice came it was small and lost, almost like that of a little girl.

_"Dad?"_

* * *

_There's always a slack period, _Gob thought. _Even on this day of days_. In the past he'd feared such times as much as he'd looked forward to them. It was on occasions like these that Moriarty would choose to beat and berate him. But less frequently there would be the chance to talk to Nova with greater freedom, sometimes even to be alone with her. Moments which he'd valued above all else until now.

In his current exalted situation, it was the perfect opportunity for him to reflect on his momentous achievement. Regardless of how long fortune decided to smile on him, it would never be forgotten that he, a ghoul, had taken ownership of Megaton's most famous establishment. They could tear down the sign with his name on it, tar him, feather him and exile him to the Wastes, but they could never take that away. In a culture in which smoothskins ran everything, he had risen to the very top.

And above all, he'd set her free. She was sitting on a stool just across the bar from him, her slender legs crossed in a relaxed fashion, casually enjoying a cigarette. He loved the way her lips formed a perfect 'o' as they blew out the smoke, loved to see the light catching the red ringlets of her hair, the white creaminess of her skin. Well, he loved everything about her really.

Unwanted a melancholy thought intruded. His changed circumstances could not alter the basic facts of his existence. He was still, as far as most smoothskins were concerned, a zombie. His appearance generally inspired revulsion. Even Nova … he recalled with sadness an occasion when she'd joked cruelly at his expense, saying that she 'drew the line at johnnies who're more squishy than me'. This prison of decaying flesh was what separated him from her, he was sure. She'd often said how much she liked him, had hinted that if only …

Was it even possible? Now that he'd become a ghoul of consequence, could she accept the downside of his physical appearance? Or at least see it as less important. Regardless of how 'nice' she'd thought him, before these last few days he must have seemed to her a cringing, downtrodden and pathetic thing. Not someone who could win the respect and admiration of a woman. But he'd proved to her that he could be strong. And he would carry on proving it.

She was smiling across at him, making him feel warm through and through. "Gob, those clothes look real good on you. I've always said that a man in a smart white suit can melt the heart of any woman."

She had indeed said that, which was why one of the first things he'd done after getting his hands on Colin's caps was to buy a pre-war business suit, along with a shirt and shiny shoes, from a passing trader. He'd been inspired by the now absent Mr. Burke, who he considered something of a sharp dresser. Unfortunately he couldn't obtain a similar fedora hat, and had to settle for a white homburg. At any rate, he believed the clothes had done much to improve his appearance; they covered more of his body, which had to be a good thing.

Nova seemed to be flirting with him, which made him wish that they could appear to one another as naked souls, untrammelled by skins or, if that seemed impossible, at least by clothing. He imagined asking her to go round the back with him … but his wild fantasies were interrupted by the saloon doors swinging.

The woman making her entrance was attired as a caravaneer of the more adventurous type, one who plied her trade in places that most Wastelanders would have nightmares about. She wore black leather armour of the best quality, plated with steel for reinforcement, and a wide brimmed Stetson over her blonde locks of hair. Her sidearm was a scoped pistol, with the slightly unusual feature of a muzzle suppressor.

The trader's eyes flicked over the two customers present, one of whom happened to be Lucy West, rested for a longer moment on Nova, and finally focused their attention on Gob. Before she could move towards the bar, Lucy detained her in conversation.

Gob felt a slight irritation, not because he was particularly anxious to speak with the woman, but simply because Lucy was of late becoming increasingly annoying to him. Since Nova's 'elevation' from her previous role, Lucy was acting excessively chummy around her, almost fawningly so. Gob assumed this was because she, Lucy, was running low on funds. She always seemed to be talking to strangers to get news of her folks, without any apparent success. Gob's real beef was his suspicion that Nova had her own fantasies concerning Lucy, and consequently paid her more attention than she deserved. Or to put it another way, he was jealous.

Leaving Lucy with a flea in her ear, the trader finally crossed to the bar. Unsentimental blue eyes regarded the ghoul calculatingly. Gob would usually have felt intimidated, but with the new found confidence brought on by his saloon, his status and his clothes, he saw no reason to bow and scrape.

"What'll it be, lady?" He studiously avoided the expression 'smoothskin'. It reminded him too much of when he'd been a dogsbody anyone could kick.

The woman's expression changed to one of mocking incredulity, as though she'd just discovered an animal that could talk. He'd been used to treatment like that, but he didn't have to take it any more.

"Got me some chems to trade." Her accent had a southern twang, though nothing of southern courtesy. "Psycho, jet and a li'l bit of buffout."

Gob shook his head. "I don't deal in the hard stuff. Anything non-addictive like stimpaks and anti-rad is okay."

"Well that's too bad." She seemed singularly unconcerned. Then with a twitch of her mouth, "Ain't you the ghoul that murdered Moriarty and won yourself a saloon?

The question could have been an innocent one, but Gob somehow knew it was not. He'd suspected this day would come; he'd just tried to convince himself otherwise.

Wearily he replied, "I ripped the fucker's heart out, yes."

The woman's full lips stretched into one of those slow smiles folks give in the Deep South. "Boy, you just earned yourself a fast ticket to the Underworld." As though by magic the pistol was in her hand, pointing directly at his head.

Gob stood still. There was no point fighting. They had come for him, and that was all she wrote. He wished many things, but mostly he wished he could live a little longer. And especially that Nova would somehow survive.

Her face was the last thing he saw before the bullet entered his brain. Then he fell dead.

* * *

*I can now reveal that Trinny is so called because of her resemblance to the Rivet City character, and is drawn from an actual incident in the game, in which a Raider with purple ponytails helped me to defeat the Supermutants across the river. Rivet City Trinny has blonde ponytails.

_Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell_ is a not particularly well-known play in which the eponymous character was most famously portrayed by the actor Peter O'Toole. I fear I haven't done justice to the hilarity generated. O'Toole could play the educated drunk as well as any man alive, partly because he _is _(or was) a drunk. Surprisingly still alive in spite of having his pancreas removed years ago.

The songs and aids to elocution, with the exception of the tongue twister _swan swam_, appear in the film and musical _My Fair Lady _in which Professor Higgins (Rex Harrison) tries to teach Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn) how to become a 'lady'.

Rather disappointingly, the fate of the UK in the Fallout World is nowhere mentioned (at least according to Wiki) so I felt free to make it up. Incidentally I've nothing against Jack Daniels or Americans.

The majority of you reading are American, so you'll know Plymouth Rock was where the Pilgrim Fathers were supposed to have landed, won't you?

I exaggerated the darkness of the metro, but it _ought _to be bloody dark after two hundred years of neglect.

And finally, I couldn't resist including a representation of my New Vegas character in the story, complete with reinforced leather armour and, of course, a Desperado hat.*


	28. Love and Pride

Ch 28 Love and Pride

"It's something of a home from home now, wouldn't you say, lover?" Clover lay back with a sigh of contentment.

Arta looked around at what she'd come to think of as Jeffrey Bernard's room. She felt the temperfoam softness of the naval cot she was reclining on. It was almost up to Vault standards.

"I'd say that in the Wasteland anywhere you can sleep in something approaching comfort and security is almost as good as a home. And I wasn't expecting us to get a chance to do that for quite some time."

Clover idly stroked the 'v' of her bosom with her hand. "We've been lucky that Jericho or Trinny didn't try to claim the premier accommodation."

Arta let her eyes run over Clover's sleek lines, the curve of her breasts, the swell of her hips and the smoothness of her elegant legs, on display because, like her companion, she was stripped to her underwear.

"I guess they wanted to be closer to their people. And we were here first. Fortunately for Jeffrey. I doubt if Jericho could've stopped the others trying to do something hideous to him."

Following the victory over Bethesda, the remainder of the Deathseeker clan had returned to the upper levels of Farragut Metro station. By staying ahead of them, Arta and Clover had just about had time to urge the initially protesting but eventually grateful Brit to leave before he was discovered.

Clover nodded. "Jericho's control seems pretty tight, but Raiders don't change their spots. I hope Jeffrey's gonna be all right. He might have a sharp tongue, but he's a harmless old coot." She rubbed her shoulder sensuously, then tilted her chin sideways to rest on her hand. "D'you think he knows about us, I mean Jericho?"

Arta leaned forward to lightly nuzzle Clover's cheek. "If he does, why has he left us together like this?"

Clover shut her eyes and sighed, then opened them again mischievously. "Dunno, maybe he gets off on the idea of us … doing … all … kinds … of … dirty … things."

That led to an intense silence, in which they kissed repeatedly, Arta slid her hand inside Clover's bra cup, and Clover rubbed at the crease of Arta's panties.

Eventually Arta managed, "I don't think he's like Eulogy in that respect, but then I haven't known him that long. And he's the sort to hold his feelings inside anyway. He wouldn't admit to them unless I really pressed him."

Clover withdrew slightly. "At least you know him well enough to do that. And if I was him, I'd want to have you straight away."

"You're not him, though, are you?" Arta regarded Clover with eyes half-lidded in thought. "He's much more in command of his soul, at least to outward appearances."

Clover sat back even further. "Bully for him!"

Arta shook her head and smiled. "You don't need to take on so. I like it that you're a heart before head kind of person." She continued in a more serious tone, "I think at the moment he's completely focused on his daughter."

"That's another way in which we differ. If she'd done what she did to me, I'd want to kill her, or at least make her suffer. And I wouldn't trust her an inch."

"You've not had a daughter though, have you? Seen her born and grow up, remembered how she was when she was a child." With a touch of acerbity, Arta added, "Anyway I thought she was your new best friend."

"That was before you told me more about her. Not that I expected any different from a Raider, but she seems more than usually poisonous."

Arta said, "She saved your life, didn't she? And she hasn't turned on us yet."

Clover shrugged. "What choice did she have? She said herself, it was a matter of survival. And then when Jericho turned up, it was taken out of her hands. We'll probably never know what she would've done; unless anything happens to him."

"I don't think she'd dare make a move against him right now, or us, for that matter. The tribe would kill her."

"I wouldn't count on it completely. Though you're right, they're pretty much in awe of us, and of him." Clover sucked her own lip thoughtfully. "I wonder if that's why he's kept us separate from the others. To maintain our air of mystery. After all, even after his little ambuscade improved the odds, they would've been in deep shit if we hadn't arrived like a bolt out of the blue. And then we turn out to be his friends and allies. We're his miracle as far they're concerned. Or rather, you are."

Arta studied her nails with a modest air. "Me? I hardly did anything in the fight."

"You did everything. Maybe most Raiders are cowards at heart, but I've never seen them spook like that." She lowered her voice. "I even felt it myself."

Arta looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"The fear. And it was more than that." A tremor in her voice, Clover continued, "I seemed to feel an icy chill in the air … and … and … I know you won't believe this but … I thought I heard something overhead, like … like the rushing of wings."

Arta stared at her, then laughed, a little nervously. "You imagined it. Or there was a downdraft of air from one of those holes in the ceiling. That would explain the chill and the sound. And my sword makes a kind of swooshing noise too. As for the rest, it was just mass hysteria caused by a very fortunate coincidence."

Clover said dubiously, "I suppose. You explain it all so easily. But …"

Arta lay back languorously, allowing one of her bra straps to slip from her shoulder. "C'mon, you don't actually think I'm the Angel of Death, do you? Feel me, I'm warm, my heart beats, I'm a living person who can die like anyone."

Clover hesitated, then eventually snuggled close to Arta, allowing her to wrap an arm around her. Pressing her head to Arta's, she said in a small voice, "When my time comes, will you be there with your sword to comfort me?"

"Don't talk such nonsense!" To get Clover off the subject, she asked, "What d'you think will happen to the Deathseekers?"

The blonde sounded unconcerned. "They'll probably survive down here okay, more's the pity. Especially now their main rivals have taken a terrible beating. Might be good news for the poor buggers they used to raid. Except that given time they'll re-recruit, or a different lot will move into their territory. Such as the Raiders of Evergreen Mills; they've got a big encampment way to the west, in a kind of hidden valley, so it's said."

Arta said, "Or other predators may appear in their place; Yao Guai, Radscorpions, Deathclaws and so on."

Clover snorted, "First time I've thought of Raiders as a way of keeping down the mutant wildlife. Though I doubt if the whole lot of them could stop a Deathclaw; luckily they don't seem to breed very fast and are territorial or they'd have overrun the Wastes by now. But yes, you could well be right."

Arta said, "It's reminded me of an notion I had, but I'm afraid you'll laugh at it."

Clover said, "Go ahead, your last crazy idea ended up working for us."

"It seems to me the problem they've got is everyone's their enemy, even other Raider groups."

"Naturally as they're a bunch of evil-minded, treacherous psychos. And so?"

"When I was in the Vault I found a secret file about the legend of a woman called Robyn Hood. She led a band of outlaws … of Raiders called the Hole in the Wall Gang. They used to rob the metro … and other places called Banks … for valuables. But they only used violence when they had to, and they took from people who had plenty, and left those with little alone. In fact they would sometimes even help the poor … see, I knew that you'd react like this."

Clover was rolling around, with tears of mirth in her eyes, laughing hysterically. Arta waited patiently until she was able to speak.

"Oh my … that's too much! Ha, ha, ha! They'll need a new name, won't they? Deathseekers won't do anymore. How about _Trinny's Terrific Tearaways? _Or _The Raiders Who Are Very Nice Once You Get To Know Us?_ Oh, I'm gonna die laughing!"

Rather curtly, Arta said, "So glad to have entertained you."

"Yes, but I hope you've not told Trinny your Big Idea, in case she decides to chain you up as a madwoman."

"I told Jericho."

"And?"

"He responded in a similar way. But he did say there was sometimes a grain of sense in even the craziest idea."

"If so it's too small for me to see." Clover stopped tittering, and yawned. "Still I'd like to be a fly on the wall when he and Trinny get talking."

Arta gave her a sultry look. "Really? Or would you rather be here all night with me?"

* * *

The woman with the Stetson blew smoke from the end of her pistol in a melodramatic fashion, and surveyed the bar room. Lucy West was cowering under her table, head tucked beneath her elbows, and the other remaining customer had fled. Nova had not moved from her position, and continued to take nervous drags on her cigarette. The woman holstered the gun swiftly, took a stride along the bar and hitched herself up onto a stool.

"Jack Daniels, straight up."

Without speaking, Nova reached for a whisky bottle, and poured a large measure. The woman knocked it back in one.

"Ah, the taste of the South!" Fixing the red-head with a steely look, she drawled, "You're Nova, ain't ya?" When this was affirmed with a nod, she continued, "I thought as much. We know all about _you."_

_This is it, _Nova thought. _Liberty ... or Death._

The woman gave the faintest tilt of her head towards the other end of the bar where Gob's crumpled body was still twitching, blood and brains spattering the front of his white suit. "See this is how it works. When everything's running as smooth as a glass of Tennessee whisky and some dumb fucker throws a spanner in the works, then folks get upset. And other folks get dead real quick. Just so that everyone takes the lesson to be smarter next time."

Nova nodded again, wondering whether it was the last thing she would ever do.

The woman gave another of her slow smiles. "We think you may be the smarter sort, the sort we can do business with. We're relying on you to keep everything ticking over pretty much like it has been."

Nova felt her knees going weak with relief. She said, "I'll do my best."

"Well, let's hope that's gonna be good enough. Because if it isn't, it'll be bad. Bad for you, you unnerstan?" She slid her glass towards Nova, and dismounted the stool. "You may not hear from us for a while, but we'll be watching." Turning to go, she added over her shoulder: "Damn fucking zombies, they should all be torched, 'specially the ones that can talk." The heels of her black cowgirl boots clicked as she walked towards the saloon door.

Lucy crawled out from beneath the table. She turned to favour Nova with the half-pitying yet accusing stare which Nova had become accustomed to, except that on this occasion she felt the full stinging force of its implied rebuke. Her face was pricking and flushing with shame. She knew exactly what Lucy was thinking: _heartless bitch._

_Its not true though_, she protested to herself. _Or I wouldn't even feel regret at what I've done. Or rather regret that someone else had to pay the price in blood._

Gob wasn't the kind of feeble-minded doormat that many imagined him to be; he'd known as well as anyone the dire consequences of daring to strike down one of the Kindred's own. But when given a chance to expunge Moriarty from existence, he hadn't held back. And he'd taken full and sole responsibility for doing so. It didn't make her feel any less guilty that he'd done so willingly and in the full knowledge of what he was letting himself in for. Because she'd known that he would.

_Because he loved her._

* * *

Katrina winced as Raven began the process of sewing up her arm. Drugs meant she could feel nothing, but seeing someone pushing a needle in and out of one's flesh was apt to provoke that reaction. Raven, a Raider with hair black as her namesake, and easily the oldest of the group at around twenty-eight years of age, continued her task with swift efficiency and an almost professional neatness.

The door hinge creaked as Jericho entered the room. Katrina met his eyes with a sullen glance, then looked away. He took a seat on a battered stool, lit up a smoke and waited.

Raven finished her sewing, took out a stimpak and injected it into Katrina's arm. She said, "As far as I can tell from this old metal detector, I've removed all the bullet fragments. The stim should seal up the wound eventually; meanwhile take it easy on the stitches. The bone's intact, so your arm should soon be good as new, Chi …" she hesitated, and glanced at Jericho.

Katrina said, "Right, good. Now get out of here."

Raven encountered her former leader's glare, and thought better of adding any further comment. She silently gathered up her tools and left.

There was a pregnant pause before Katrina, still not looking at Jericho, said, "Come to gloat?"

In an easy tone of voice he asked, "Why d'you think I have?"

"Because you like gloating. And I guess the main reason you haven't killed me yet is so you can make the most of my humiliation." Her eyes darted in his direction. "So what'll be? Crucifixion? The Molerats?"

Dryly he said, "I ain't got anything in mind at the moment."

Her voice was matter-of-fact. "You still need me then?"

"I still need you." He coughed. "Listen, the air ain't so clean down here, and there's too many ears a flapping. How 'bout we take a turn outside? Dawn'll be coming up soon, and we can post some sentries."

She shrugged, "Sure, if you wanna risk your arse. Mine's already fucked."

"We can go up on the bridge. Ain't nuthin' gonna' surprise us there."

They left a sentry at the top of the wall overlooking the metro entrance. By the time they'd picked their way through the rubble at one end of the broken bridge, the grey of pre-dawn was changing to a rosy flush. Jericho went to stand on the very edge of the vast rip between the bridge sections, where the gap seemed temptingly narrow enough to leap across. For a moment, Katrina thought he _was _going to do so. Then he looked back towards her, in a challenging fashion. Riled she stepped forward to join him at the brink. A cool breeze ruffled her hair, sending the ponytails streaming and chilling the patches of bare tanned skin her armour left exposed. To the east the light was growing stronger, and on the plaza below the head of the taller of the two statues was topped with gold.

Completely unexpectedly he seized her around the waist, pulling them both together. She reacted instinctively to try to break away, and for nightmarish moments they struggled and swayed over the vertiginous drop.

He muttered fiercely into her ear: "Just one push by either of us, and we'll both fall."

Her breaths came in fast pants. She could see the water roiling far below against the massive pillars. "Do it then, you crazy old fool!"

His grip on her was unbreakable without a struggle that would have doomed them both. "Why don't you? You're acting like you're already dead, and now's your chance to take me with you."

It seemed to her as though the world was spinning, her heart was hammering. "Let me go, for fuck's sake!"

With equal suddenness, he released her, pushing her back towards safety. She stepped away from him, her chest heaving furiously. Before she could speak, he turned his gaze away from her.

"Look."

The sun had climbed above the tallest buildings to the east, releasing a yellow flood of energy upon the world. Rays fell on her skin and hair, warming them. She squinted against the brightness.

"Was that worth waiting for?" Sweat shone from his balding pate. "Glad you're still here?"

Determined not to give up her rage, she said in scorn, "D'you think I've never faced death before?"

"It ain't death I want you to face. It's life."

She clutched herself stubbornly. "I don't know what you mean."

"You're alive, ain't ya? Still got breath in your lungs, still can pump blood through your heart." He reached out to touch her cheek. "Feel that heat? There's plenty not long cold in the ground beneath us who'll never see the sun again."

"What's your point?" She brushed his hand away. "You were crazy enough before, now you've gone completely loco. Is it because of _her_, with her weird notions about life and death and _forgiveness_?"

He screwed up his face in thought. "If you count that as crazy, then I've been that way since the day you were born. But, yeah, when she showed up, I started waking up to things I'd put into the back of my mind. And what she's become is something like how I wanted you to be."

"I'm so happy for you. You've found yourself a new daughter, one you don't have to force to be the way that you want. And guess what, you can fuck her as well." He winced, and relishing that she had landed a verbal blow, she added ruthlessly, "You _are_ fucking her, aren't you?"

Forced onto the defensive, he protested, "That ain't a good way to describe …"

"Bullshit, you either are or you aren't, you dirty old man!" Getting into her stride, she continued, "And if you are, then I've got some news for you. She's almost certainly knocking off that hot blonde merc. So much for virtue and loyalty." Seeing his face change, she taunted, "They're probably hard at it right now."

He appeared to be keeping his composure with difficulty. "I ain't come out here to talk about them."

"Then tell me … tell me what you want with me. Other than to take away my authority and make me crawl."

He shook his head despairingly. "I don't want that and I've never wanted it. In all the time you were plotting against me, I never fucked up your shit in the way you did mine. Didn't you ever wonder why? Instead of slapping you down or putting a knife in your back, I gave you what you wanted. Rifles to command, freedom to carry out whatever sick schemes you dreamt up. I gave you the whip hand over vets who had twice your battle experience."

"Why? Because you were a fool and a coward, just like you are now. You didn't know how to handle me. All your dumb attempts to buy me off just made me hungry for more. And in the end you were afraid of what I'd become."

Slumping despondently, he said, "Maybe I did screw up. Being a father ain't easy. But fear had nothing to do with it. I could've taken you down any damn time I wanted, believe me."

"But I don't fucking believe you. Any more than I believe Arta's story that you had me at gunpoint before I stuck that bitch like a pig. No doubt she's swallowed your lying tales along with your cum."

He gave her an exasperated look. "If you don't believe, then you don't. There's no way I can prove it to you now. But you can still use the sense in your noddle. I was War Chief. You should know yourself how easily you can ice someone. Doesn't have to be straight up or fair and square. A scorpion in the bed works just as well. Or you can order the poor fucker into near certain death in battle."

For the first time she felt herself without a reply. Then her expression hardened. "You mean like you did with momma?"

"How many times do I have to say it? She put herself in the line of fire because that was the kind of dumb broad she was. It was only a matter of time before her number came up without any help from me. Did I give a shit? No, but maybe I should've done, because you did. All I could figure was without her around we might avoid adding another psycho-bitch to the family."

"Fuck you!" she shrieked, almost incoherently. "Who are you to judge anyone, you lecherous fucking drunkard? Whatever you say, she was always there for me, until _you _took her away and shacked up with that whore. And she … she was beautiful … she was the only one who really cared about me."

_Why can't I tell her? _he thought. _That her mother didn't even want her to be born. That she raised her under duress, preferred pillage and torture to child care._

_Because it would damn near destroy her. She'd have nothing left. And she's all I have._

Instead he said, "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you lost the one person that meant something to you. If there's some way I can make up for it, something I can do to help, you only have to ask. Have control of the tribe back, if you want, I don't give a toss."

Again she was brought up short, shocked out of her anger. "Why would you want to do that?"

"You may not remember, but when you were a little girl, I made you a promise that things would get better. It's about the only decent intention I've had in my life, and I'm gonna try my damnedest to keep to it."

She looked at him, hardly able to comprehend his words. "Are you insane? I've thrown everything you've ever tried to do for me back in your face and killed your woman. Don't you get that I don't want any of your shit, and especially not your so-called 'better life'? Just leave me alone; I can't change to the way you want me to be."

Doggedly he said, "I don't believe that. I won't believe it. All the things you've learned, they can't be for nothing."

"I've learned to be a Raider, because that's what I am."

"You're more than that. Those things you read on the terminals in Springvale; there's not many Raiders that know that kind of stuff."

"About Julius Caesar, and George Washington and … Christopher bloody Columbine? Yeah, they've been a great help to me in this fucking irradiated crapheap."

"See, you _do _remember. I figured that if you were gonna be a Raider, at least you'd be a damned good one. And I was right about that, wasn't I? No one gets leadership of the clan by inheritance alone. If you didn't have it in you, you'd be dead by now. And if you could learn to do that, then you can learn other things … about culture and stuff."

"What does a sad old fuck like you know about culture?"

"Just about bugger all. But I don't want you to end up washed up like me; I want you to have a chance to do the things I couldn't." He waved a hand westward. "Springvale's still under Deathseeker control. Go and give it another shot. Do something worthwhile."

Katrina made a gesture of frustration. "You're wasting your time. And though I hated that bitch, if she could hear you now she'd rise up out of her grave and curse your name."

"She'd know that she wouldn't need to. To even remember her is a curse I'm gonna carry until I join her there." He made a wry face. "Which ain't gonna be long on current form."

She gave a snort that sounded like a suppressed laugh. "I doubt that. You're about the most difficult cuss in the Wastes to get rid of. Death himself must be tired of turning up at your door." After a pause for thought, she asked, "Doesn't remembering her make you feel at least a little happy?"

Gloomily he said, "Not for long; mostly I drink so that I don't have to. The worst is when there's something I've wanted to say to her. Or when I've wanted her to hold me."

Her ponytails drooped. "That's how I feel about momma."

They stood in dejected silence for a while, thinking their separate thoughts.

Then Jericho said, "They can't be here. But maybe there's some way that we can feel better about them." He extended his arms. "Come here."

She backed away. "You're mad!"

"C'mon, what have you got to lose? This time I promise I won't let you go."

Nervously she twisted her hands, half-raised and let them fall. He still stood with his arms open.

And then something deeper within her took over, and she threw herself towards him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Clasping her to him, he said, "There, there, daddy's got you."

* * *

"The men are ready for inspection, _sah!_" The Talon Commander stamped his feet and saluted. The line of mercenaries drawn up in the sunlit courtyard stared straight ahead with bored expressions, some of them chewing gum.

"Thank you, Commander, you may carry on."

Burke acknowledged his subordinates' words with a cursory nod. The formality of this ritual, he knew very well, was not entirely to the mercenaries' liking. While they could hardly be described as lax and indisciplined, there was something of a freewheeling, buccaneering style to the group. This simply would not do on this mission, and would have to be corrected. He followed the company commander along the line, noting here and there evidence of infractions of the military code and even insubordination. _Another sign of the sad decline of civilisation from its peak._ Even army-based factions like the Brotherhood of Steel were not immune, especially after they'd begun to recruit locally.

Burke completed the review by receiving another salute from the officer and his men. Moving away from the line, he turned back again to address them.

"Talon Company has gained a deserved reputation for providing brutally simple solutions to outstanding problems. There may be the need for such a direct approach during this mission, in which case I'm sure none of you will hesitate. Nevertheless there will be times when discipline and restraint are paramount. In such circumstances, a policy of shooting everything that moves will not serve our purposes."

Noting the sullen expressions, he thought _blunt tools; they will need to be sharpened._

"To encourage the correct attitude, I expect military discipline, orderliness and maintenance of weapons, equipment and personal appearance to be at their highest. In future, any derelictions of duty will be punished severely."

He observed the Talon mercenary who had delivered the report standing insouciantly at the end of the line, and thought _He'll do, though for my purposes someone farting the wrong way would serve just as well. _

Stepping back he drew his silenced 10mm pistol, and fired from the hip. The Talon fell, a bullet drilled precisely through the centre of his forehead.

Still holding the smoking pistol, Burke contemplated the row of suddenly tense faces. _Let's give them plenty of time to reflect on the speed and accuracy of that shot._

He said, "I trust I make myself perfectly clear."

* * *

"I never thought I'd end up in an army of Raiders." Clover jerked her thumb backwards. In the half-lit metro archway behind her nearly a dozen of the Deathseeker clan were checking over weapons, distributing ammunition and preparing to move out. "But I've got to admit it's not a bad thing when facing an army of ghouls."

Arta nodded in agreement. _This has turned out far better than I anticipated. With luck this journey through the metro could be as easy as going for a pee._ She raised a hand to acknowledge Katrina and Jericho, who'd just emerged from the doorway to the upper level, talking together in a business-like fashion. _Not exactly happy families, but at least they seem to be cooperating rather than competing._ Seeing her wave, they crossed the line towards her. Arta noticed Katrina had regained something of her air of defiant cocksureness. _A chip off the old block in that respect._

With her usual faint smile, Jericho's daughter said, "We're ready to kick some zombie arse, or better still incinerate it." She nodded towards a Raider porting a flame-thrower acquired in the recent battle.

Arta tapped her sword, "I'm all in favour of that. Thanks for doing this, by the way."

"You're welcome. It's in our own interest anyway, or at least that's how I can paint it to the clan." Lowering her voice, she continued, "We're gonna move our main stronghold back west again. Dad told me about your idea that we've got too many enemies. I'm putting out feelers to Evergreen Mills. We've never exactly been at war with them. Maybe we can combine our forces and move in on some Bethesda areas. And another thing. Instead of destroying small settlements, we're gonna try recruiting from them. At least until the tribe is back to full strength."

Arta gave a triumphant look in Clover's direction. "Glad to have given some helpful advice." _Even if it wasn't quite what I had in mind. But Clover's right, I've got to be realistic about my expectations. If a Raider leopard can change her spots, it'll be only a few at a time._ Nevertheless she ventured to add, "And maybe if you torture and kill less people, you'll get more recruits."

"You're a strange woman, but I guess anything that could work is worth listening to." Katrina raised her voice, "Okay, let's get moving!"

The journey through the darkness of the metro tunnel was considerably less alarming than the first one they'd made. Arta was impressed by how quietly the Raiders were able to move considering their numbers. They left those carrying the heaviest weapons in the rear, and allowed lightly armed scouts to reconnoitre ahead. It seemed only a short time before they were once again approaching the deserted station. This time there was no immediate sign of the presence of ghouls; the patches of light showed only drifting vapour, and the deep shadows were silent.

Katrina said in a low mutter. "Pass the word, fan out on either side."

After a series of whispers, the Raiders began to filter left and right, forming two lines in which those on the extreme wings were furthest advanced. Arta, Clover and Jericho remained in the centre with Katrina and Klaus, the Raider with the flame unit.

When all were in position, Katrina took out a strange stubby looking pistol with a thick barrel. Pointing it towards the arch of the ceiling, she shouted, "Come and get it, zombies!"

The pistol fired with a dull sound, followed a second later by the soft whoosh of a flare bursting overhead. Its brilliant white glare threw a stark illumination over the whole scene, revealing the many hunched forms that had been waiting quietly in the shadows, cringing and snarling at the unaccustomed light.

Sporadic firing broke out, as some of the Raiders began to pick off the nearest targets. Arta sighted and shot a crouching ghoul through the head, noticing that nearby Clover was doing likewise with the Black Hawk. Then as the creatures got over their initial surprise they began to individually run forward in the strange loping stride that covered the ground so quickly. The firing rate picked up, and more ghouls began to fall, none getting close enough to attack in spite of their speed. The battle had taken on the appearance of a massacre. Then a shout went up on the right flank.

_"Glowing One!"_

The flare had finally fallen to earth, leaving the station mostly dark again, apart from several torches that the Raiders had thrown down. But Arta needed no artificial light to view the creature that had sprung out from behind the stairway leading to the upper level. It had the same general shape as the other ghouls, but its entire body emanated an eerie green-white radiance, which rendered it clearly visible even in total darkness. The other ghouls, including those already attacking or wounded, clustered around it like moths drawn to a flame. As they drew closer, it raised its arms in a strange gesture, and the glow around it grew even brighter.

Jericho snarled, "Shit! It's healing them!"

"Healing them? How can it do that?" Arta asked worriedly.

"With radiation. Remember rads don't damage them, they actually work like a super stim. And a Glowing One is a ghoul that's sucked in a mother-fucking lot of radiation which it can chuck out whenever it damn well pleases. Good for them, bad for us. Bullets ain't gonna be enough to stop it." Raising his voice, he shouted, "Fall back to the tunnel!"

Many of the Raiders were already in retreat, some backing off while still firing, though as Jericho had predicted, their weapons seemed to have less effect than before on the ghouls gathered around the Glowing One, which itself looked to have taken no significant damage. As though drawing confidence from their leader, the mass of ghouls made a collective surge forwards, falling on the rearmost of the Raiders. The screams as they were literally ripped apart were the fuel of nightmares.

Jericho grabbed hold of Arta and Clover, pulling them away. "C'mon, get into the tunnel, I've gotta notion how to stop it." To Klaus, "Back up but try to hold them off until I can rig some mines."

Klaus was already following his orders, edging backwards while spraying sheets of flame in the ghouls' direction, causing them to temporarily halt their advance.

In the tunnel, Katrina was rallying the fleeing Raiders. "Get into two lines. Those in front crouch or lie down. I'll shoot anyone who tries to run away."

At the same time Jericho was squatting in the tunnel entrance, fiddling with an oblong device. Arta was surprised to see that it appeared to be a child's lunch box. He swiftly placed another one parallel to it but several metres across the tunnel. Arta and Clover joined the reorganised ranks of the Raiders, crouching in the front with weapons ready.

Jericho yelled to Klaus, "Okay, it's done, get the hell out of there, and watch your step!"

The bearded Raider sprayed one last desperate burst, then discarded the flamethrower and ran for his life, carefully skirting the two boxes Jericho has left, and the tripwire between them. Once clear of them, he threw himself to the ground.

Katrina shouted, "Aim for the ferals in front, not the Glowing One. On my command, ready …"

The onrushing pack of ghouls was only seconds behind, the Glowing One in their midst, silhouetted against a backdrop of flames which made them seem like a congregation of fiends from hell.

"… Fire!"

The tremendous volume of shots struck the leading rank of the charging ghouls, riddling them with bullets, and causing them to fall or stagger back. The almost unscathed Glowing One continued forward, its luminous flapping feet breaking the tripwire.

There was an ear-splitting double detonation. In the instant following the flash, Arta saw the Glowing One's head separate from its torso and shoot upwards, while its limbs flew off in various directions. All around it the remaining ferals were being sliced to pieces as though by invisible knives.

"Cease firing!" Katrina's instruction was almost redundant, as it was obvious from the neat pile of bloody chunks that the enemy had been totally annihilated.

Jericho mopped his brow. "Jees, that was a close one! If the mines hadn't gone off right, we'd have been in big trouble."

Getting to her feet, Arta asked, "What kind of explosives were those? They looked like something kids might make, but they were lethal."

"That ain't a bad guess. I got the design from Moira, a little something called a Bottle Cap Mine. Then I was lucky enough to come across Crazy Wolfgang, who happened to be carrying the kind of junk I needed, like those lunch boxes you saw. I re-jigged them to deliver a cone shaped blast in one direction only, same as the pre-war explosive called a Claymore. Otherwise we'd have been in major danger of catching some of the flying caps."

Clover chuckled, "Killed by cash, that's too funny! How much do we owe you?"

"Heh, just buy me drinks at the next bar we come across!" He glanced across to Katrina. "You don't only have me to thank. That was some impressive Napoleonic style manoeuvring to get into a two line formation so quickly."

Katrina grinned, "Up guards and at 'em!"

"Yeah, exactly! Let's hope that was the ghouls' Waterloo, and all we have to do is mop up."

* * *

"Get something to wrap him up and take him out the back; then clean up the bar."

Serena, Nova's most recent whore-in-training, made a sound of disgust, but then phlegmatically set about the assigned task. Nova observed the young woman's attractive but determined features with a practiced eye. _A tough one that. Reminds me of myself at her age. With the right management, she'll do fine._ She watched the girl wrinkle her nose as she dragged away Gob's corpse. _At least the smell can't get much worse than when he was alive._

Turning away from the sad sight, she noticed that Lucy had come forward to lean on the bar. Her well-honed instinct for the subtleties of human behaviour told her that the formerly well-to-do young woman had something important to propose. Nevertheless she avoided eye contact. _Leaving her to sweat it out is so much more satisfying._

Lucy coughed, "Nova … I …"

"Yeah?" To further unsettle her already nervous customer, she abruptly focused the gaze of her green eyes to look straight into Lucy's blue ones.

Lucy made an unconvincing attempt to appear charming. "It's a shame about Gob, isn't it? But I guess it means you'll be running things from now on." She paused. "As I've always thought you deserved."

"Just get to the point, Lucy." Nova often found being deliberately blunt was a good way to faze the young woman, and it was amusing to observe the effect it had.

Lucy gulped. "Er … right. You see the funds to start up my business seem to have been delayed longer than I anticipated. So I thought I might try something on the side, just to tide me over."

"In short, you want a job."

"Yes. I noticed your vacancy for cooks. It so happens that I've had a particular interest in cookery since I was a small girl. I can prepare most common ingredients in a variety of satisfying and delicious ways: Molerat, Mirelurk and so on. My squirrel kebabs are particularly ta …"

"Lucy," Nova interrupted, "I think you may have got the wrong idea. The advert was for 'whores_ stroke _cooks'. I don't have the budget to employ separate staff for each. And as far as I'm concerned, it's more important for applicants to be suited to the first profession than the second. After all …" she gave a smirk "anyone can learn to cook." _I hope I'm not getting too like Colin already; I'm enjoying this far more than I ought. _"So," she continued, "do you consider yourself suitable?"

She watched with relish as a look of mingled shock, horror, dismay and outrage settled over Lucy's pretty but prim face. It was followed by a deep flush.

"Well … I, I mean I never … that's not what I …"

"I see," Nova swept on smoothly and ruthlessly. "You consider yourself above that sort of thing. I understand. And I think it's time for you to leave."

"N, Nova, please," Lucy's voice contained a note of panic. "We've always been friends, haven't we? I'm … I'm desperate. If I don't get money soon, I'll be thrown out into the Wastes to die."

"We won't be friends for much longer, Lucy," Nova purred. "If you throw my offer of help back in my face."

"I wasn't throwing it back … I …" Panic was turning to fear.

"In that case you'll need to convince me you can do the job … _all _of the job."

"But I don't think I can …" Lucy sniffled.

"Then don't waste my time." Nova deliberately turned her back and folded her arms.

"Alright, alright," Lucy gabbled. "I'll … I'll give it a try. I mean I can give it up any time, can't I, when I get my money?"

Nova cast a glance over her shoulder. "Sure you can, hon,'" she said kindly. _Keep her off balance. _ "And I'll take care to break you in gently. Now you just need to show me what you can do, and you'll be ready to start."

"Sh, show you what I can do?"

"I've already said I need to know you can do the job satisfactorily. So …" Nova turned round and gestured towards the balustrade. "If you would be so good as to accompany me upstairs, we'll see what you're capable of."

Lucy had paled beneath her tan. "But Nova, I've never been with a woman, and in fact I …"

"No more 'buts'," Nova said cheerfully. "In this kind of job preferences are a luxury you can't afford. As Colin used to like saying, _you'll sleep with a ghoul if there's caps in it. _In fact you should be grateful for my personal attention; it would formerly have commanded a premium price."

"Bu …"

"_Get upstairs, Lucy!" _Nova's voice cracked like a whip.

Lucy gave her a last pleading look, and getting no encouragement, her shoulders slumped. With the air of a martyr, she mounted the steps reluctantly. Nova watched her, a serene smile playing over her lips. _If I've sold my soul to the devil, I might as well extract the maximum price. Making one of my fantasies come true will do nicely for a down payment._

* * *

The golden glow filtering through the chain links of the metro gates recalled to Arta the moment preceding her first emergence into the upper world.

"Thank god!" she said. "Sunlight at last! I've got so sick of being underground, I don't care what's outside."

Katrina gave her a grim smile. "You may change your mind when you get up there." Looking at her tousled hair and tired, begrimed but still beautiful face, Arta had to admit to herself that she felt at least a twinge of sorrow at the prospect of parting. The shared dangers had become a kind of bond. If Katrina in any way reciprocated this sentiment, she concealed it well by adding, "Though I'd love to battle through hordes of Supermutants with you, I have to make sure this rabble live to fight another day."

Arta nodded. "I understand. You've already helped us far more than could be expected. I'm sorry you lost people by doing so."

"Shit happens. And maybe if it wasn't for you, I'd be dead along with the rest of the clan. So I'll do you one last favour. Apart from me, Lorel's the only surviving clan member who knows this part of Chevy Chase. She can show you the best way to get to GNR … but no more than that." To her lieutenant she added, "I need you back here pronto. Don't go getting into any major rucks with those frankensteins."

The green-eyed Raider showed her teeth in a fierce grin. "No fear of that!"

_How ironic! _Arta thought. _If things had gone a little differently, I might have fought Lorel to the death before I ever came to Megaton. Now she's our guide._

Katrina then surprised Clover by offering to touch fists with her. "If you ever get tired of following Arta around, I can always use another good lieutenant."

Too taken aback not to respond to the gesture, Clover replied, "If I ever do, I'll find one for you." She muttered under her breath to Arta, "And if Uncle Leo could see me now, lover, he'd probably turn into a ghoul on the spot."

Katrina then moved along to where Jericho stood chewing on one of his dog-ends and looking faintly embarrassed.

"Hey kiddo," he ventured, spitting out the stub. "Look after the clan for me."

"Hey old man," she shot back. "If you want it back … then you can fuck right off."

As they turned away towards the exit, Clover whispered, "Did I just dream it, or did they _hug_?"

Arta was too busy suppressing a sob to reply.

* * *

_Exposure. _That was the prevailing feeling that overcame Arta, as she emerged blinking into the bright sunlit afternoon of downtown DC. As Katrina had predicted, the relief from the darkness and claustrophobia of underground didn't last long. Instead it was replaced by a new kind of tension. Everywhere she looked, the ruined streets towered above her, the tall buildings leaning over against the sky, like conspirators crowding together to plot her downfall. The merciless glare of the sun seemed designed to reveal her presence to unfriendly eyes, to lay her open to view from countless windows. Wrecked vehicles, signposts, rubble piles, and other familiar and unfamiliar objects choking the streets were there to obstruct her line of sight and conceal her enemies. But perhaps the sense of danger and rampant agoraphobia was the sum of all the fears and warnings associated with this location. Finally she was here, in the place that everyone had told her was probably the most dangerous in the Wasteland. Where the Supermutant scourge was strongest, and only the heavily armed, the brave or the foolish would dare to venture. And yet her father had undertaken to run this gauntlet, and was perhaps even now close at hand.

She tried to use this affirmation of her purpose to overcome her sense of fear, aware that Jericho might be watching to gauge her reaction. He had said that by the time she reached central DC she would be ready, tested in the fire of combat. And that seemed to be true. She had already fought many battles against different kinds of enemies, both human and mutated, and had come through all of them victorious and practically unscathed. Why should she not be prepared for this ultimate test?

While she continued this meditation, she remained with the others crouching near the top of the metro steps, surveying the surrounding area for possible dangers. In front of them was a peculiar piece of ironwork, consisting of a rocket-like craft circling a globe. Beyond that was a building faced by a gigantic carving of a warrior goddess with a stern expression and enormous breasts. It reminded her of the supernatural elements which continued to intrude on her dreams, and her hand unconsciously touched the pommel of her sword.

Lorel said in a low whisper, "The only way I know of to get to GNR is through that collapsed building over there. But watch your step, the floor's missing in many places. When I was last here, someone had left boards to cross the caved in areas. Let's hope they're still there."

Jericho added, "And that they ain't watched or guarded as you'd expect."

Arta could see that beyond the nearby ruined buildings a radio pylon rose even higher than Agatha's. _At last, a sight of Galaxy News Radio!_ Before she could comment, Clover touched her shoulder and pointed. "Look, behind that Pulowski Shelter."

Peering at the pepper pot shaped shelter, Arta spotted a bulky arm protruding, coloured the distinctive sickly yellow of a Supermutant's hide.

Jericho said, "That's one guard for starters. We don't want to alert any others. You two, see if you can snipe it from behind that metro sign. But keep your eyes peeled."

The black cone bearing the name _Chevy Chase_ looked barely sufficient to hide both of them. Moving in a stealthy crouch, Clover made her way to the left side of it, Arta the right. Peeking out, Arta could see the whole flank and head of a Supermutant, watching the building with a hunting rifle strapped to its shoulder.

She said, "I can see enough of it to target the head."

"Any others around?"

"I don't think so."

Clover said, "Targeting it now."

"Right, I've got it too. Ready?"

The two weapons fired in almost perfect synchronicity. Bright blood spurted from the mutant's forehead and it keeled over.

"Shit, there's more!"

Two more mutants had emerged from behind some decorative columns that had once formed part of a passageway running around one of the tall buildings. They were obviously aware that their comrade had met with an untimely end, but unsure from where the fatal shots had originated. While a Brute remained covering the metro steps with its assault rifle, the second mutant went to investigate, carrying a huge plank which it seemed prepared to use as a weapon.

Arta and Clover ducked behind the metro sign, and waited back to back, Arta with her sword ready. Soon they could hear the heavy tread of the supermutant getting closer. As it passed, Arta sprang out and aimed a cut at its pillar-like legs, then another which set its meaty buttocks aflame. Roaring with pain, the creature limped at speed while trying to extinguish the fire with its hands. Only to run into Lorel and Jericho who aimed shots at its head. Beset on all sides, the mutant's fate was sealed. It flailed futilely at its tormentors with the board, before crashing burning to the ground.

Clover meanwhile was using her magnum to shoot at the Brute, forcing it to take cover behind a column. Seeing this, Lorel moved sideways towards the ruined building in an attempt to flank it. But before she could get fully into position, a red beam of light issued from the same direction to sear the mutant's flesh. A figure in dull grey armour, blending well with the background of broken stone, was moving quickly through the building, sending more sizzling laser bolts towards the Brute. Confused, it turned to meet the new threat, only to expose itself to yet more fire from Lorel and Clover. Within seconds it had succumbed to bullets and flame like the first.

Arta had immediately identified the newcomer as a soldier of the Brotherhood of Steel, and signalled to the others to lower their weapons. Clover complied at once, but Lorel either hadn't understood the gesture or chose to ignore it. To Arta's relief, the Brotherhood warrior made no hostile move towards them, though he held his laser rifle warily ready. Instead of a bio helmet, he wore a hood made of a similar material to Hannibal's Recon armour, framing his austerely handsome Latino features in a silvery oval.

Arta was on the point of speaking, when another soldier wearing power armour and a full helmet emerged from around a building corner. The new arrival reacted immediately, swinging her assault rifle to point at Lorel.

"Raider!" Her voice, mechanised by the helmet voice box, was high-pitched and excitable.

"No don't shoot!" Arta waved her _shishkebab_ in a desperate attempt to attract the soldier's attention. "We're on your side!" But her cries came too late; the rifle muzzle spurted fire, and Lorel screamed and fell.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Lorel lay clutching her breast, which was bleeding. Then the hooded soldier's voice rang out.

"Reddin, cease firing and stand down!"

"But its Raiders, Vargas!" the helmeted female protested.

"Shut up! Do these others look like Raiders?" The soldier called Vargas had already slung his laser rifle and was hastening to Lorel's side. Not as quickly as Jericho, who was cradling the Raider's head in his arms. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as the blood continued to flow, and her face was twisted in pain.

"Let me see." Vargas knelt to examine Lorel, his tone laconic but his expression gentle. Jericho gave him a glare, then allowed him access. Vargas peeled away part of Lorel's leather armour, then winced. "Not good." He produced a hypodermic and injected it carefully close to the wound.

Arta approached in horrified fascination, forgetting to sheath her sword. Lorel's breathing was slowing, and her face seemed to be relaxing. As Arta stood over her, the Raider's green eyes turned upwards in a look that seemed focused on some distant horizon.

"You've come," she said. "I knew you would." Her head fell back.

Arta's gaze averted from the dead woman's staring eyes and instead settled with a kind of loathing on the burning blade. She quenched the flames and returned it to her hip.

_Will you be there with your sword to comfort me?_

Vargas looked up. "I'm sorry," he said brusquely. "There was nothing to be done but give her something for the pain. Bullet fragments were lodged in the heart."

"Nothing to be done!" Jericho snarled. "Your trigger-happy bitch has done enough already, soldier boy!" Arta thought she could hear genuine grief behind the anger. _Does he care so much?_

"Hey!" Reddin snapped. "We don't have to take this!"

"What the hell's going on here?" The voice was female and passionately imperious. Arta turned to see a third member of the Brotherhood of Steel standing amidst the building rubble, training a laser rifle in their general direction. The absence of any headgear revealed hair the colour of ripened corn, pulled severely back from a well-proportioned face of classic beauty. She might have been the warrior goddess come to life, but her haughty demeanour brought Amata into Arta's mind. _Here's one accustomed to people jumping when she whistles._

Maintaining his gruff manner, Vargas said, "Seems like Initiate Redding may have been a little hasty in her target selection again."

"Oh, c'mon Vargas!" The helmeted female sounded furious. "This chick was dressed like a Raider, for fuck's sake! And look at her tattoos!"

Vargas contemplated Lorel's body again. "Reddin may have a point, Sentinel. These markings look genuine."

All three Brotherhood warriors became tensely alert. The blonde-haired woman asked harshly, "Who _are_ you people, and what are you doing in DC?"

Before Arta could speak, Jericho interposed. "We're people who get seriously pissed when we're shot at by jerks just out of nursery school!"

Arta sensed hackles and weapons being raised on all sides. The woman who seemed to be leader said angrily, "You dare to insult the honour of Lyon's Pride!"

Reddin added, "The best outfit in the whole Brotherhood of Steel!"

Perceiving that the situation was deteriorating all around her, Arta caught Clover's grim look. _The sides are even now. Are we good enough to beat the best?_

* * *

*I don't think I need to explain the confusions of the Legend of Robyn Hood other than to point out that the Hole in the Wall Gang included such (in)famous Wild West outlaws as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

_As easy as going for a pee_ My preferred expression was 'as easy as a walk in the park' but this would have little meaning for someone whose only experience of such a thing was in her dreams. Despite being slightly more complicated for women, this seemed to me about the only thing in the Wasteland that was fairly easy to do.

I've probably exaggerated the danger represented by a single Glowing One even on Very Hard level. Still the game hints do mention Glowing Ones healing other ghouls, and though I've never noticed this happening, it could imply some kind of group action, even in ferals.

_Up guards and at 'em! _Though it's disputed whether he actually said it, this order is attributed to the Duke of Wellington at a decisive moment in the battle of Waterloo, marking the end of the Napoleonic Wars. British Guards under his command generally formed up in two lines to deliver rolling volleys of fire.

You might've guessed the long delay was due to me being away.*


	29. They Can't Stop the Signal'

Ch 29 'They Can't Stop the Signal'

The massive shoulder plates of the Brotherhood of Steel warriors displayed a blue crest with a lion rampant, moving in rhythm with the faster pace of their breathing. But despite the tension thus revealed, their weapons did not waver.

Arta's brain was working furiously to take in the tactical data that her adrenalin-fuelled senses were trying to supply. Trying to figure out who was about to shoot who resembled a complicated exchange in chess. Clover had her magnum trained on the bareheaded blonde leader, Jericho was pointing his assault rifle at Reddin, while both she and Vargas were targeting him in return. Which left their leader to choose between covering an opponent with a sword and one with a huge gun aimed at her head; not a difficult decision for her, at least.

_Perhaps they don't consider a blade so much of a threat as an automatic, though it could easily take off someone's head._ Rather than weigh up these imponderables, Arta focused on the bigger picture. Whatever the battle's outcome, it seemed likely that one or more of her companions would be hurt or killed, and all because of a misunderstanding and some hasty words. She decided to appeal to the adversary who had seemed the most reasonable.

"Vargas, please don't let this end in more killing. You saw that we weren't going to attack you, and held your fire. We aren't your enemies, and I can explain everything if you give me time."

She could see Vargas was considering her words, while still watching Jericho like a hawk. He said, "Sentinel, I sense something unusual. Even if the one we killed _was_ a Raider, these others don't exactly fit that profile. And if flappin' your mouth and acting like an arsehole was a capital crime, Reddin would never've got through basic."

_Perceptive but not exactly tactful._ Arta hastily interjected, "We aren't Raiders, and the woman you shot was accompanying us only as a guide."

The blonde leader raised her eyebrows. "A Raider was your guide? That doesn't make any sense."

Jericho said, "Oh yeah, 'course, you know it doesn't, so why bother to fucking ask?"

With forced patience, the woman replied, "I can see we're having trouble getting on the same wavelength. But that doesn't mean we have to fight. If you bring down your weapons slowly then we'll endeavour to do the same."

Arta gestured urgently, and was relieved when Clover responded by gradually lowering her gun to point at the floor. Vargas reciprocated; followed by the woman he'd referred to as 'Sentinel'. Jericho and Reddin were the last to back down.

With the air of someone taking charge of the situation, the squad leader said, "I'm Sentinel Sarah Lyons, of Lyons' Pride. You may have gathered that's an elite division of the Brotherhood of Steel. As its commander, I answer only to my father, Elder Owen Lyons, and he has authorised only Brotherhood members to be in this sector of DC. We don't need civilians stumbling into our sights while we're fighting the frankensteins. So you'd better have a good explanation for why you're here."

Too relieved that a deadly confrontation had been avoided to take umbrage at the woman's arrogant tone, Arta said, "We never intended to get in your way. We're on an important mission to Galaxy News Radio. And as I said, we needed a guide to get us through the DC ruins. "

"And your business at the station is what exactly?"

"We want to talk to Three Dog about … a private matter."

Reddin gave a chortle through her helmet filter. "Oh yeah? You want to talk privately with the biggest loudmouth in the whole Wasteland? Good luck with that!"

"Quiet, Reddin!" Lyons appeared to be musing. Then she said, "If you're not going there to harm him, then perhaps our purposes may coincide. Galaxy News Radio is under the protection of the Brotherhood. It's one of the strongest buildings in DC, and we've made it into a kind of port in a storm. Plus you may have noticed Three Dog tends to give us a good press."

_Undeservedly so! _Arta brought to mind the shabby way the Brotherhood had treated her and Mei Wong. But now was not the time for discussing past wrongs. Diplomacy was called for.

Unfortunately Jericho chose the moment to air the chip on _his _shoulder. "You mean all that that fairytale crap about knights fighting the good fight? Nah, that just makes everyone that hears it want to vomit."

Lyons regarded him unsmilingly. "You have one thing in common with Three Dog: you certainly like the sound of your own voice. I was about to say that GNR has come under a strong mutant attack. Lyons' Pride has been assigned to relieve our brothers defending the station."

"Like the fuckin' US cavalry? Only not so fast moving?"

Arta decided she needed to recover the conversational initiative. "In that case we share an objective, and we can join forces."

Reddin sneered. "No help from outsiders is required. You can just tag along and watch us fuck up the uglies good time."

Lyons said with exasperation, "Reddin! Will you just let me do the talking?"

"Yes ma'am."

"No ma'am, three bags full ma'am …" Jericho added derisively.

Looking as though she was gritting her teeth, at least mentally, Lyons continued, "As _Initiate _Reddin so forcefully suggested, we are fully capable of dealing with any opposition we encounter. However you're welcome to accompany us to the station." She paused, "It would be courteous to identify yourselves."

Despite the Sentinel's air of superiority, Arta felt strongly they shared a common purpose. The two of them had managed against the odds to avoid conflict. And then there was that reminder of Amata which sent a little shiver up her spine … here was another woman who seemed to have grown up in the shadow of her father's absolute authority.

Holding out her hand, she said, "I'm Artemesia Wendell, Arta for short. These are my companions Jericho and Clover."

Lyons hesitated fractionally before accepting the handshake with firmness. "I believe you're already acquainted with Initiate Reddin, and Paladin Vargas is second-in-command of the Pride." She nodded towards Vargas who was frowning.

"Sorry, did you say Wendell?"

Her heart suddenly thumping again, Arta said, "Yes, have you heard the name before?"

"I reckon so. I've been monitoring the radio traffic out of GNR, and I recall a recent transmission about someone called Wendell. Give me a minute and I'll replay it."

He put one hand to his earpiece, then remained in an attitude of listening.

Jericho said to Reddin conversationally, "So how does it feel to be just another grunt?"

"Fuck off!"

Clover whispered to Arta, "Jees, I can't get a word in edgeways here!"

Vargas said, "Aha, got it!" The voice of Three Dog could suddenly be heard from a speaker near the rounded neck of his armoured suit.

_Hello, Capital Wasteland! Three Dog here, jockey of discs and teller of truths. Got a little story that might be of interest, especially to my good friend James Wendell. Remember I said someone else from his Vault had hit the Wasteland? Well it turns out to be none other than James' own daughter!_

_And what has she been up to you ask? Good question! A little bird told Three Dog she'd been seen in the vicinity of Paradise Falls. Not long afterwards those slaver bastards attacked a community known as the Temple of the Union. Why? Because they were trying to provide a hidden haven for slaves everywhere. Just the kind of thing that warms old Three Dog's heart, but Mr Eulogy Jones had to put the freeze on it._

_And how did that ice-hearted villain get to hear about the place? Well maybe you should ask a certain Vaultee carrying a big bundle of caps and accompanied by Eulogy's own bodyguard._

There was a break in the message, followed by the disc jockey saying: _Seems like a bunch of Supermutants are trying to knock on Three Dog's door. But they can't stop the signal …_

Vargas clicked the speaker off, and there was a silence. Arta found herself flushing with anger and embarrassment. She was sure that Lyons and Vargas were giving her looks of contempt. _But it wasn't like that at all! There were no caps! And in any case, what could I have done differently?_

Eventually Lyons said coldly. "I see how it is. Well your conversation with Three Dog should be an interesting one. For my part, I've no concern with slaver business; they have their work to do and I have mine. My offer still stands. If it's all the same to you, we're ready to move out now."

Arta said, "We're not slavers. But we're ready too."

Clover added, "And I'm Arta's bodyguard now, not Eulogy's."

Lyons shrugged. "Whatever. Our scout, Knight Colvin, has been reconnoitring the mutants' positions. He's just a block away. Follow me."

She turned to walk over a plank bridge laid across one of the cavities in the ruined buildings. Vargas gave Arta an uncertain look before falling in behind his squad leader.

Reddin remained where she was. Gesturing to Arta, she said, "After you." When Arta and Clover started to cross, she added, "I'm watching you slaver bitches, so tread careful and don't make any sudden moves."

_But we're not …_ Arta realised there was little point in speaking. These people were unlikely to believe in her good intentions, and in any case they didn't much care. _We might as well be baggage as far as they're concerned. Or even garbage._

As they walked together, Clover said, "So I've finally got to be famous! Though I didn't imagine it was gonna be like this. Three Dog made us sound bad for sure."

Arta said, "Yeah, he's stitched us up real good. I'm just wondering how he got to hear about it, especially so quickly."

From behind, Jericho growled, "Nosey bastard's probably got contacts all over. With that big aerial of his he should be able to pick up ham radio broadcasts." He paused, then continued harshly, "Know what I think? Reckon we're looking at your man Caleb. He probably did the smart thing and joined the slavers, but decided to badmouth you to Three Dog anyway."

Clover said waspishly, "It's more likely to be that slut Cameron. She struck me as the sneaky type that'd turn on anybody. I hope Eulogy's giving it to her good up the backside."

_Either of them could be right, but both have their own reasons for picking a particular suspect. Mainly jealousy I reckon._

As though to confirm this thought, Clover said in a wistful tone, "I wonder what Eulogy's doing now." To Arta she said, "Not all slavers are so bad, are they? I mean at least they provide a service, not like Raiders."

"I suppose Ymir wasn't such a bad sort. But then you get hell cats like Carolina."

Jericho snorted. "They're just a different kind of arsehole."

Clover protested, "But you were a Raider, so how can you say that?"

"Yeah, I've got experience of both, and I can't say there was much between 'em. Slavers care about money, and Raiders don't. That's about the only real difference."

"That's not true! All Raiders kill and torture. Slavers don't generally do that."

"Yeah, 'cos that would be bad for business. In a funny kind of way Raiders have more respect. If you're torturing someone, it means you see 'em as a person. Slavers just see a mound of caps."

Listening to the increasingly heated discussion, Arta thought, _This is almost the first time there's been such a long conversation between them. And they're struggling to justify their respective backgrounds. I hope the competition between them doesn't get out of hand. We can't afford to fall out amongst ourselves._

* * *

"Three more mutants released from their torment, Sentinel," the helmeted knight reported. He was crouched by a building corner, his assault rifle cuddled into his shoulder.

"Good work, Colvin." Sarah Lyons raised a hand to call a halt. "What's the situation with the rest of them?"

The Brotherhood soldier gestured in the direction of another building shell. "It appears they've taken up positions in that old school. From this side it's the only way through to GNR. If they're planning to attack, then they've got a strong rear guard posted."

The afternoon sun shone through ragged gaps in the walls, picking out the movement of bulky yellow forms behind them. Above the single visible doorway was a sign: _Early Dawn Elementary._

Lyons said thoughtfully, "This degree of organisation indicates that Masters could be present."

"That was my conclusion too, Sentinel, though I've only seen Brutes up to now." His mechanised tones raised an octave in enquiry. "We have comrades-in-arms?"

"We found these Wastelanders in sector four. They're trying to get to GNR so I've allowed them to tag along."

"Welcome!" The soldier spoke in a voice that was bell-like even through his suit mike. He removed his helmet, showing blonde hair cut straight across like a field of wheat. "Knight Colvin at your service."

The man's air of enthusiasm, bonhomie and blandly handsome features scored few points with Arta, but seemed to favourably impress Clover. "Good afternoon, Sir Colvin!" she simpered. Aside to Arta, she added gleefully, "This is the first time I've met a knight!"

"I don't think he's exactly a real knight," Arta whispered back. "In any case," she added doubtfully, "they're all supposed to be knights, aren't they?"

"Yeah, maybe, but he's got the true spirit of chivalry!"

"Er, whatever." Arta couldn't even be bothered to feel jealous about Clover's whimsical flirtation, which she was sure was destined to last a short duration.

Reddin perhaps resented Clover behaving like an excited schoolgirl around Colvin, as she doffed her helm and glared at the blonde. Her own auburn hair was shaved close to her scalp, military fashion, her lips prominent and pursed with anger.

"These rag-tag and bob-tail Wastelanders are from Paradise Falls, Colvin," she snapped. "And we're expected to nurse-maid them!"

Colvin appeared untroubled. "It's our duty to protect the people of the Wasteland." To Clover he said, "My fellow knights may seem gruff, but they will lay down their lives for you."

"How very _noble_," the blonde tittered.

"Three-Dog himself said they were bad news!" Reddin protested.

"Mere rumours!" Clover waved offhandedly, then whispered fiercely to Reddin. "Keep your trap shut if you know what's good for you." Pointing at Arta, "This is the Angel of Death you're talking about. Take a guess at what happens to people who cross her.

"Hist!" Arta had heard the whisper, and didn't like the sound of it. "No more about that, okay?"

"If I can just butt into all the bitch-fighting and tales of derring do …" growled Jericho. He asked Lyons, "Is Sir Douche-bag over there your scout?"

"You've obviously not been to charm-school academy," she told him. "But yes, that's him."

"Then maybe you should ask him whether there's any alternative to making a frontal assault on that school in daylight."

"I don't need to ask," Lyons said shortly. "Without heavy blasting equipment to punch through the rubble, there isn't. Time is critical, and we can't wait for darkness."

"My _arse _is critical, and I'm damned if I'm gonna risk it because you want to play heroes."

"If you want to see Three-Dog, you'd best hope we can engage the frankensteins before they overrun the station."

"Transmission from Galaxy News coming in, Sentinel!" Vargas raised a hand to his earpiece. "Putting it on live."

After a few crackles, a voice tense with urgency could be heard. "I say again, this is Knight Sergeant Wilks in GNR broadcasting to all Brotherhood units in sectors three and four. The main mutant assault has begun. I don't know if we can hold them much longer. There are Masters out there. I repeat the main attack on GNR has begun, and we urgently need assistance."

"Right, that's it." Lyons sounded business like. "We're going in straight away. Vargas, tell them we're coming. You'll be on my left. Colvin flank right, but watch out for any vehicles about to explode. Reddin as usual you shut up and do whatever Paladin Vargas tells you."

"Yes ma'am!"

"As for you others, I'd advise keeping your heads down. And try not to do anything stupid. "

Jericho saluted, "Permission to speak, your Sentinelness!"

"Can the sarcasm, I don't have time for it. Shoot!"

"We have a couple of snipers here. With a little luck we might bring down the guards and be in there before they know what's hit them."

Lyons nodded. "Good plan. Let's see if it works. Everyone stand by. Once we're inside though, don't wait to see the whites of their eyes. Shoot every frankenstein on sight."

Reddin and Colvin briefly gripped gloved hands, then replaced their helmets. Vargas was transmitting. Clover sighted with her magnum, and Jericho had a grenade ready. Before raising her sniper rifle, Arta spared Sarah Lyons a glance. She looked perfectly calm. _Whatever her other deficiencies, she knows how to lead. I could learn a lot from watching how she conducts herself._

The movement of the guarding mutants across the gaps in the upper storey meant they were both visible only briefly.

Arta said, "I'll follow the one with the helmet. Sing out when you've got a clear shot."

"Affirmative, lover."

Lyons said, "I'll give you two minutes to try co-ordinating it. After that, take any shot you can. We'll just have to go hell for leather."

_Two minutes isn't long. And only headshots are likely to kill. For us to get this right is asking a lot, and the price of failure could be high._

"Locked on." That was Clover.

"No."

"Still tracking … no lost it."

"Targeted."

"Trying to pick up it again, still behind the wall."

The seconds ticked by, without them being able to acquire both guards. The Brute was out of sight so long Arta was beginning to wonder if it had gone to relieve itself. The heavy breathing of the Brotherhood soldiers through their bio helmets seemed a sign of their barely suppressed impatience. Finally the creature reappeared, its crested helm and savage features visible between the crosshairs.

"Target clear!"

"Fire!"

At the gun reports both mutants jerked back almost simultaneously.

"We got them!"

But Arta's exultant cry was premature. Clover's mutant was still standing. It gave a roar.

"_Someone shoot off my ear!"_

Clover said, "Shit, it moved!"

Sarah Lyons said, "Pride, prepare to advance!"

Within a few heartbeats, three mutants had emerged from the doorway, two of them Brutes armed with assault rifles.

"Humans! Attacking us!"

"_Watch out!"_

Jericho's grenade had landed at the feet of the leader. The resulting explosion sent the mutants staggering.

"Kill the uglies!"

"For Elder Lyons!"

A barrage of bullets and laser beams struck the Supermutants, causing them to reel back further. One was able to wildly toss a grenade before falling under the hail of fire.

"Colvin watch out!" The grenade exploded by a car that the knight was crouching next to, partially shielding him from the blast.

"It's about to blow! Everyone into the building! Go, go, go!"

The car was burning fiercely. The quartet of power-armoured figures charged headlong at the last visible mutant standing, shooting as they went. Arta and Clover were about to follow, but Jericho stopped them.

"Hold up! Get behind the building corner. We don't have bio-suits like them."

They had barely time to follow his instructions before the atomic engine exploded, sending a super-heated blast wave across the play yard in front of the school. When Arta looked out again, Reddin was pulling Colvin to his feet; Lyons and Vargas had disappeared, and shouts and gunfire were coming from the school building.

She said, "C'mon, we've got to help them!"

Jericho showed no sign of concern or a desire to follow her. "Ain't any need for hurrying. The soldier boys can do the close quarter fighting for us. Stupid fuckers said they didn't need our help, so let's see how they do on their own."

Arta glared at him but Clover merely shrugged. "He's got a point at least. There's not much sense in charging in like they did."

Arta's jaw tightened. She ought to have figured on Jericho doing his own thing, yet his high-handed attitude was becoming increasingly grating. She'd become used to the more compliant Clover, being able to give her own orders and take her own decisions. Jericho was trying to usurp that authority, and she wasn't about to let him. After all he'd nearly caused them disaster before, with his hostility to the Brotherhood.

She said, "We're going in to support them. If the mutants kill them all, then we're probably screwed too. We'll go cautiously though."

She stared hard at Jericho. He gave a slight chuckle, then shrugged in his turn. "Whatever you say, kid."

By the time they'd reached the doorway and entered it, the only sign of the Pride's presence was the crackling of laser fire nearby. The peeling plaster of the corridors reminded Arta a little of Springvale school, but the entire building was open to the sky, and there were battered lockers and desks instead of corpses and gruesome trophies.

Arta turned in the direction of the combat sounds, but again Jericho laid a heavy hand on her arm.

"What is it this time?"

"You wanna help your new friends? We can do that better if we get up high. I've a notion there could be a flight of steps round the back here … yeah I thought so."

As they made for the crumbling stairway, Clover asked, "You found these pretty easy; you've been here before?"

"Maybe."

"Then why did we need a guide?"

"Ah, DC ruins are always changing. You can never be sure."

_That might be true, _Arta thought. _But why has he become so cagey about what he knows? I'm not sure I trust him any longer._

* * *

Lucy West stood next to the bed, wearing only her underwear, twisting her fingers uncertainly and nervously moistening her lips.

Nova found Lucy's edginess something of a turn-on. She noted too that her undergarments, while not so obviously seductive as her own, were at least of a decent quality and cleanliness. _A sign of her former wealth and respectability. And that's one of the reasons she's become my fantasy. Those are things I've always secretly craved._

She considered whether being dominant or seductive would be the best way to go, decided to combine the two.

Stepping close to Lucy, she slid her fingers up and down her bare upper arm, stopping to massage the tension from her shoulder.

"Relax Lucy, just go with the flow," she allowed her thumb to begin grazing Lucy's neck, "and do _exactly what I say_, and everything will be fine." She let the thumb stroke under and around the chin, then spread her fingers slightly to gently part Lucy's lips, rolling them with the tips, finally inserting the middle one into her mouth to touch her tongue.

"Now suck on it." As Lucy started apprehensively to comply, she added, with deliberate crudeness, "You can pretend it's a man's cock if you like." She slowly withdrew the finger, let her hand trail down the chin and neck, then lower between the 'v' of Lucy's bosom, leaving faint beads of moisture. Once there she spread the middle three fingers to seek out and caress Lucy's right nipple through the thin material of her brassiere. She took her time to bring it to erection, knowing that it would be harder for Lucy not to respond such direct stimulation.

Leaning towards the younger woman, she whispered into her ear, "That feels good, doesn't it? See, no reason to get scared, I'm not going to bite you … very hard."

Lucy gave a little shriek, as Nova actually bit, not hard, into her shoulder. After the bite, Nova raised her wickedly glinting eyes to look into Lucy's widened ones, then brushed her lips across Lucy's shoulder, until she reached her neck; began worrying her throat with small, tender bites which turned into kisses. At the same time she let a hand track down Lucy's spine, fingers slipping into her panties to stroke a spot just above the crease of her buttocks.

_I think she's far enough gone not to freak out on me. _Nova was giving her attention to the lobe of Lucy's ear, sucking it into her mouth.

"Turn your head this way, Lucy. Now part your lips a little." Lucy did so closing her eyes, and Nova pulled her close for the kiss.

_She's already aroused and I haven't even made her remove all her clothes. That's the next stage. And when I make her come screaming, that will be my victory, my fantasy fulfilled._

* * *

Arta had to admit Jericho was right. From the height of the first floor they could view the roofless rooms and corridors as though looking down on a maze._ Like a rat run, _Arta thought. Lyons' Pride was engaged in close combat with several Supermutants and Lyons herself was in the act of shooting her laser into a Brute's face.

But there were more immediate concerns. Much of the upper storey flooring was missing, and boards had been placed to connect the remaining areas. Next to a pillar on the most central of these, a Supermutant was firing downwards with a hunting rifle.

Before Arta could take proper aim, the mutant became aware of her presence and unleashed a shot. She quickly took cover behind a broken wall. Clover and Jericho reacted in more direct fashion, firing at the mutant's arm to disable it. With a snarl it dropped its weapon, then leapt or fell down into the corridors below, where the Pride instantly filled it full of assault rifle rounds.

Looking back, Arta saw Colvin reach the top of the stairs. The reinforced glass slits of his helmet turned towards her.

"You Wastelanders are pretty smart after all. Take the high ground and hold it, that's my motto."

Arta nodded. From below, Sarah Lyons shouted, "Colvin, check whether the building is secure."

"As far as I can see, Sentinel, it is."

"Good, proceed to the wall facing GNR, and prepare to give us covering fire."

"As you command, Sentinel."

_As you command! _Arta figured Colvin liked playing up to his 'knight in shining armour' image. She supposed that didn't necessarily make him less sincere. Lyons' Pride certainly didn't mess around when it came to full on combat. There were no cowards among them.

She quickly crossed the plank bridges to the central pillar with Clover and Jericho, noting a strange object hanging from it. It was like a sack made of out of a net, and it was dripping blood.

"What's that?"

Clover said, with a slight shudder, "It's known as a Gore Bag. Supermutants use them to store treasured objects. For Supermutants that usually means things to eat, and they most like to eat humans. So they're mainly full of body parts. Occasionally though they contain other valuable stuff like ammunition or grenades. Have a rummage if you like."

"No thank you very much!"

Jericho said, "If my ears don't mistake me, we've got some more work on our hands before the looting can start."

The sound of a huge detonation was followed by the rattle of assault rifles.

Clover said, "That sounded like another exploding car."

"Yeah, that was atomic all right. Seems like its total war out there."

They reached the wall at about the same time as Colvin. Arta cautiously peered out of a window gap to survey the scene. It was dominated by the towering shape of the Galaxy News Radio Station, so tall that even the Washington monument behind it was only just visible, upraised like the finger of Fate. The radio tower on the roof was in part duplicated by the massive façade of the building, into which a representation of an aerial had been carved, radiating zigzags to display the signal waves broadcasting across the Wastes.

Yet for all its impressive size, it was the fast and furious battle taking place around the station that instantly drew Arta's attention. Steps led up from a courtyard to a pair of heavy steel doors, with sandbagged defences in front of them. Behind these, and on the balconies to either side, were the defenders and former defenders of GNR. Those fallen outnumbered the living; metal clad figures lay stiffly motionless like discarded suits of armour. The few Brotherhood warriors still standing scuttled to and fro like steel crabs to maintain a desperate defence of the ramparts and gates, which looked as if they would be overwhelmed at any moment by the horde seeking to break inside.

The courtyard was seething with Supermutants; splodges of putrescent yellow the colour and texture of a child's modelling clay. Armed with a variety of weapons, principally assault rifles, they were attacking the human defenders with reckless abandon. Bellows and cries of rage and exultation rose above the relentless hammering sound of gunfire, and their hugely bloated forms seemed like an unstoppable affront to nature.

Amongst them, Arta noticed several mutants of a variety she had not seen before. Of similar size and strength to the Brutes, they wore leather caps with goggles and their armour appeared less cumbersome. The weapons they employed were of better quality, their assault rifles of the more powerful Chinese type. She wondered if these could be the _Masters _spoken of by the Brotherhood_. _

This conjecture was immediately confirmed by Clover's horrified exclamation, "Fuck, there's a Master with a _Fatman_!"

Arta remembered a Grayditch mutant had spoken of such a weapon with respect; a _Fatman _was clearly something awesome in power. In the centre of the plaza was another of the decorative iron globes with an orbiting spacecraft, set on a kind of stone plinth. Standing on the opposite side was a Supermutant with a rocket launcher of altogether strange design. Instead of the long sleek missiles she had seen the Raiders using, the creature was stooping to load a short, fat rounded projectile.

"Oh shit, it's got mini-nukes." Jericho sounded almost as alarmed as Clover. "That must've been what we heard exploding. We've gotta stop it before it finishes reloading."

Even before he'd completed the sentence, Colvin was firing down at the busy mutant. Unfortunately its position behind the statuary made targeting more difficult. Arta tried unsuccessfully to line up her sniper rifle on the be-capped head. Her shot into its armoured shoulder seemed only to enrage the creature. Snapping the launcher shut, it rose and lumbered with purposeful speed in their direction.

Clover screamed, "Crap it's coming!"

"Shut up, and bring the fucker down!" Jericho fired causing the Master to stagger, but not to stop, before having to duck back to avoid the bullets which some of the mutants had begun to aim at him.

"Stay back, Sentinel, I will deal with this!" Forced like Jericho to take cover, Arta was aware that the Brotherhood knight had moved forward into the window gap. The next instant, he had jumped.

"Colvin, no!" A cry of dismay rose from below.

Whether power armour had the ability to cushion its wearer after a leap from the first storey of a building Arta could not tell. She only heard the huge detonation, and saw the rising mushroom cloud that followed. Peeping out, she could see no sign of Colvin or the Master. The _Fatman_ launcher however, had clattered to the ground near the statue, obviously thrown clear by the force of the nuclear blast.

Beside her, she heard Jericho's comment, "Seems like Chivalry is dead," followed by Clover cursing his callousness. Then Sarah Lyons' voice came again, steely with determination.

"Forward Pride! For Colvin and Elder Lyons!"

The three remaining members of Lyons Pride had emerged from the doorway beneath them, and spread out into a triangular formation with their commander at the apex. Before the mutants were even aware, accurate laser fire had taken down two of the Brutes. The rest concentrated their whole attention on the attacking trio.

"Never mind nattering! Give them covering fire!"

But Arta had ignored Jericho, and was clambering through an opening in the wall.

Clover cried, "Arta, what are you doing, you'll get yourself killed!"

The Vault woman had selected a spot where the rubble was piled up beneath, so that when she hung down with her arms at full extension, she had only ten feet or so to drop.

She said, "Someone's gotta make sure the mutants don't get back that launcher," and then let herself go.

She landed knees bent, the impact severely jarring her legs, but without damaging them to any serious extent. Turning quickly, she was relieved to find herself under no immediate threat. The remaining mutants seemed to have their hands full with Lyons' Pride, and some had retreated behind the Brotherhood's own sandbag defences.

The _Fatman_ lay only a few metres away. It occurred to Arta that she had virtually no idea how to use or load it, and that carrying it would make it impossible for her to use another weapon. She reached it without difficulty. Bending down, she found it both heavy and cumbersome. However if she could only bring it back to the school …

"Arta! Watch out!"

At Clover's scream, she looked up. A Supermutant Master was bearing down on her at full speed, wielding a huge sledgehammer-like weapon. Encumbered by the _Fatman_, she could not dodge away.

Time seemed to distort into a series of action frames, each one in slow motion. She was trying to throw down the launcher and run, but her hands and feet moved as though they were made of lead. The Master drew closer, seeming to take an age to raise its supersledge above its head. She could see the bullets striking and rebounding from its armour one after another. The sound of Jericho shouting at Clover to 'bring the fucker down', was remote and distorted. Its small, cunning eyes regarded her with a kind of malicious glee, and she watched its mouth open in a snarl of triumph …

And then the Master's foot caught on a projecting piece of metal, its weapon flailed at empty air and it sprawled head first on the ground before her.

She thought then that the present moment hung suspended altogether, as though her existence had separated into a time line of its own. It seemed from high and far off there came the faint sound of music, like a distant trumpet call. In her hands was a sword of pure flame, and she drove it downwards between the bowed shoulders behind the thick, corded neck.

"_Azrael!"_ Whose voice had shouted that name? It seemed to echo over and over in her head.

The next thing she was aware of was Sentinel Sarah Lyons putting an arm on her shoulder. "Artemesia? _Arta? _It's all over Arta."

She looked downwards. The Master lay dead at her feet, the _Shishkebab _projecting from between its shoulder blades. There was silence in the plaza, and drifting smoke. Supermutants lay everywhere in grotesque postures of death, some atop their fallen enemies. Only herself, Lyons, Reddin and Vargas remained standing.

Lyons gave her a sudden smile that was almost kindly. "Are you all right? I thought I heard you cry out in the battle, some word or name I couldn't distinguish."

"I … " _What did I say?_ _Whose voice was it that cried?_

"I saw what you were trying to do. So I give you my thanks. And to your friends for helping cover us."

Arta looked up to see Clover waving happily at her. Then the blonde turned to continue arguing with Jericho.

In the courtyard Reddin was kneeling by a fallen armoured warrior. She had removed the helmet of the corpse, and her own, and Arta saw that she seemed to be weeping.

She said, "I can't believe he did it, that he's gone."

Vargas said with sympathy, "He died as he'd have wanted, saving his friends and taking his enemy down with him."

"Yeah, yeah … I guess, but … dammit!"

"Look, we've still got a job to do. D'you think those were all the uglies in DC? We have to finish our sweep of the area. You take the east side, and I'll take the west."

"Okay." She sniffled, and replaced her helm. "I guess this means the Pride needs me more than ever."

"That's unfortunately true." Vargas' bluntness seemed to have returned.

As far as Arta could see, there was nowhere left to search. The east side of the plaza, where Reddin had begun to patrol, was completely blocked by a long, wrecked vehicle. Apart from the school, the west side was similarly a dead end, with a metro entrance almost entirely buried in rubble. She assumed that Vargas was using duty as a distraction to help them both deal with the death of a comrade.

She heard Reddin say, "Something smells like a whole pen of brahmin shit." Then there came a creaking, groaning sound like metal under great stress.

Vargas turned round irritably. "Reddin, what the hell are you doing?"

"It … it's not me …"

The sound reverberated, accompanied by a bellowing equivalent to a whole herd of maddened brahmin.

Suddenly animated, Vargas shouted, "Behemoth! Reddin, get out of there!"

A ripping, tearing noise followed, then the vehicle blew apart, sending Reddin's body flying backwards. Arta threw herself flat to avoid the shower of metal fragments, only cautiously lifting her head after the chain of explosions had finished. Through the smoke and flame of the burning wreckage, a massive shape loomed. As she watched, it effortlessly smashed through the remains of the vehicle, the ground shaking beneath its heavy tread.

The sight in front of her was one that might daunt the bravest heart. The creature advancing into the plaza was a Supermutant of immense size, bearing a similar relation to the normal variety as a _Fatman_ to an assault rifle. If it were not moving in a kind of slumped crouch, the monstrosity's bullet-shaped head would have reached the first storey of the school building. In one impossibly huge hand it carried a fire hydrant as though it were a club, the other was thrust through a car door, which it bore as a shield. Such protection seemed hardly necessary, as its bulk and thick, scaly hide made it look almost impervious to harm. Human skulls hung from its body.

The giant mutant paused, raising its head and sweeping it from side to side as though snuffing the air. Then it gave another of the heart-stopping roars and began to stump purposefully towards the centre of the courtyard.

Sarah Lyons said in low tones, "Vargas, as soon as you get a chance, go for the launcher. I'll try to distract it first. Arta, run for the school; its too big to get in there."

Arta felt a sense of panic grip her, as a mouse might wait petrified at the approach of a cat. _It's so big, _she thought. _If it stepped on me it'd crush me as though I were an insect. _She began to edge towards the doorway.

Lyons had placed the bronze statuary between her and the questing creature. She waved her hands and shouted, "Hey, you, ugly! Over here!"

The mutant gave a bellow and charged straight at Lyons, its huge legs carrying it forward with frightening swiftness and terrifying momentum. It swung its club, but was impeded by the pedestal, smashing the top off and sending the globe into orbit.

Arta was already scurrying towards the school. Lyons was only yards behind her, employing a bouncing stride to make remarkably good speed in her power armour. Temporarily baffled, the mutant swung round and set off in pursuit, with a noise like a stampede of bulls.

Arta reached the sanctuary of the doorway and turned, willing Lyons to make it. The Sentinel's metal clad form was dwarfed by the mountainous bulk of the charging creature behind her, the huge club swinging down to swat her like a fly. With a split second to spare, she threw herself through the gap. The fire hydrant struck sparks on the stones behind, and the mutant itself butted against the wall of the school, causing the entire building to shake.

Clover, crouching next to the window on the top storey, felt a mixture of relief that Arta was safe, and terror as the Behemoth beat furiously on the wall with its club, causing chunks of masonry to fly off. She had heard tales of such creatures, but had never seen one before. Jericho had probably been right to stop her from shooting, as it would have both infuriated the Behemoth and brought it closer to the school, which had proved to be the only refuge. She had thought his advice to remain in position until the area was secured overly cautious, but it had been born out by events. Otherwise she could've ended up being squashed like a bug.

She controlled her fear enough to look out the aperture. Reddin lay unmoving where she had fallen, and Clover was pretty sure she was dead. Vargas had been hiding behind some sandbags, but while the Behemoth was occupied he had crept towards the broken statue, and picked up a mini nuke.

_He'd better hurry, _Clover thought. Lyons was trying to keep the Behemoth's attention by taunting it from just out of reach. Clover feared that in its rage and frustration it might knock down the wall, assuming it was strong enough to do so.

Vargas had the launcher in his hands and was loading it. But he could not fire with the Behemoth so near the entrance and Lyons.

Without thinking, Clover shouted, "Vargas back up, you're too close!"

"Shut up!" Jericho hissed. "He knows!"

Whether or not the Behemoth heard the shout, it chose that exact moment to turn round. It's enraged greenish eyes, tiny compared to the ugly neck-less mound that was its head, peered short-sightedly in Vargas' direction. It let out a roar and charged.

_Back up, Vargas, back up! _Clover prayed silently. _Now, go on, shoot it!_

The Paladin seemed to be waiting for the last possible moment to avoid the blast radius encompassing a friendly target. As he moved backwards, he stumbled over a patch of rubble, took another significant second readjusting his aim.

The Behemoth was upon him, swinging its club. Vargas fired. The hydrant struck and knocked him like a skittle, sending his body tumbling over and over. The mini-nuke detonated slightly behind and to the right of the charging creature. The Behemoth screamed in pain as the nuclear fires enveloped its body, began to frantically beat them out with its fists.

Beside Clover, Jericho urged, "Go on, shoot it in the head."

Clover hardly needed the Black Hawk's scope, the target was so big. She fired again and again until the clip was empty. The Behemoth ignored the rounds, and continued to try extinguishing its only real cause of anguish.

The flames died. The Behemoth turned back towards the school, and Clover hastily ducked down. Her eyes met Jericho's as if to say, _What now?_ He was frowning as though in anger or concentration.

Clover looked down to see what Arta was doing. She had her arm around Sarah Lyons, who appeared to be in shock. _What must it be like to see all her friends killed? _Clover thought. But she felt a twinge of jealousy all the same.

She switched her attention back to Jericho. His expression had become more thoughtful. And somehow Clover knew that he'd formulated a plan. Judging by his face, it might not be a particularly pleasant one.

* * *

The group that gathered in the desolate ruins of the Early Dawn Elementary School was smaller and more forlorn than that of less than an hour earlier. The cheerless remains of a classroom provided an appropriate backdrop for their council of War. Instead of the babble of children's voices, they could hear the heavy stumping of the Behemoth outside.

Clover began despondently, "It's all my fault. If I hadn't shouted out, it might not have seen Vargas and he might've landed a direct hit."

Sarah Lyons shook her head. "That's past, and speculative anyway. The thing probably can't understand human speech. The Brotherhood has encountered these Behemoths from time to time, and they've shown no signs of anything but the most limited intelligence. Quite possibly they only follow basic urges like the need to kill and eat."

Arta asked, "If we wait, will it eventually give up and go away?"

Lyons headshake was even more despairing. "I can't say. But I'd guess not for a long time, with a ready source of food lying around. Meanwhile more mutants may arrive to attack the station." A break in her voice, she added, "I'm sorry, but I'm finding it difficult to think positively right now."

Arta said gently, "We understand that you've lost people." She squeezed Sarah's shoulder sympathetically.

"Its not just personal. Vargas and Colvin were at the heart of the Pride. They're a loss to the entire Brotherhood. Their names will be remembered with honour in the scrolls of the Citadel."

Jericho broke in impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, condolences and all that. We've gotta come up with a workable scheme to either kill the damn thing or avoid it."

Clover said, "We could somehow distract its attention, then sneak or run past it into the station."

Lyons said, "I doubt if that's a good idea. Firstly the doors to the station are electronically locked. We'll need clearance from inside for them to be opened, and they'll be reluctant to do that in the circumstances. Secondly even if we made it that far, there's no guarantee that the Behemoth might not tear the building apart around us."

Arta said, "So it comes back to killing it. It's already wounded, so maybe we can wear it down over a long period of time."

Lyons said, "We may not have that time, and it may be provoked to try breaking into the school instead. We just don't have the necessary firepower." She put her head in her hands.

Jericho took a drag on a cigarette, exhaled and looked skywards as though for inspiration. Then he said, "Yeah we do. That _Fatman_ out there. It's already given it a nasty burn to think about. Reckon another direct hit will kill it."

Arta asked, "But how're we gonna have enough time to get hold of the launcher, load it and take aim?"

"Well that's the shittier side of the plan. Someone's gonna have to lure the big motherfucker all the way back to where it came from, so that it's as far from the launcher and nukes as possible."

"But there's no way out from down there." Arta fixed Jericho with an accusing stare. "And no cover. You're suggesting one of us commits virtual suicide."

"No," Lyons broke in. "He wants _me _to commit suicide. That's why he's pointing that assault rifle at me. Well?" she asked Jericho. "You _are _pointing it at me, aren't you?"

Jericho smiled faintly, moved the Chinese assault so that it was aiming more directly at Lyons. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"You're not sorry." Lyons gave him a look of contempt. "You _are _a Raider, aren't you? Like your dead friend back there. I should've known."

"Well I guess I havta say guilty as charged."

Arta's hand was on her SMG. "Jericho, if you don't put that gun down, then _I'll _shoot you."

"And if you do that, then I'll kill her instead." Clover had the Blackhawk aimed at Lyons' head.

Lyons gave a cynical grin, "Who the hell's supposed to be in charge here?"

Arta looked at Clover, her eyes moist. "You too? You cooked this up together, didn't you?"

"Look Arta." Clover avoided Arta's eyes, kept her own and the magnum unwaveringly trained on Lyons. "This isn't a betrayal. I'm only trying to do what's necessary to get you to that station. I've waited to see if anyone came up with a better plan, but no one has."

"What happens if she survives? What kind of reception d'you think we'll get?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?" This from Jericho.

Lyons said, "I'll put you in front of a firing squad if I get the chance. And have you thought what happens if you have to kill your sacrificial lamb prematurely?"

Jericho said, "That's where it gets nastier. After shooting you in both arms, we'll dangle you out the window by a rope. Not so good as bait, but you're guaranteed a pretty horrible death when Mr Monster comes to take a bite out of you."

Arta exploded, "Jericho, this just isn't right!"

"Oh yeah? Ain't we had this conversation before? Was it right to kill the poor bloody scavenger? You havta do what you havta do."

"I'd rather give up finding Dad and go home than do something this … this shameful!"

"Go home to where, Arta?" Clover sounded sympathetic but unrelenting. "To Megaton? The same Megaton Burke wants to incinerate. You want to put all those lives and our own at risk to save the arse of a woman you've only just met."

"I'll go in her place!"

"No, I don't think you will. In any case, we won't let you. Don't make us have to stop you."

Arta lowered her gaze in despair. "Do whatever you want. I don't care anymore."

* * *

Lyons' crouched near the school doorway, looking much smaller and more vulnerable without her power armour.

Jericho said, "Well I'm afraid this is it. Remember Clover's ready to shoot you in the leg should you try running the wrong way."

"Oh I'm remembering every detail in the unlikely event I survive! Arta, can't you see the evil bastard's enjoying this?"

Arta couldn't speak from the lump in her throat, and Jericho merely chuckled softly. "Just like you used to enjoy killing Raiders before we learned how to fight back."

"I have no regrets about cleaning your kind of scum from the Wasteland. I only wish it was still a priority. Maybe after this my father may consider a change in the Brotherhood's mission."

"Ha, ha, your old man probably reckoned it was easier trying to exterminate the muties. You thought you just needed to turn up with your fancy armour and lasers and we'd run like radroaches. Instead we kicked your arses back to the Citadel."

"We also learned to fight a different way, especially after those Outcast traitors left. Lyons' Pride was at the forefront of that, and it'll go on, with or without me to lead it."

"Well, ain't those some noble last words? If you're quite done speechifying …"

Lyons glanced at Arta. "Yes, I'm done. Except to say that the _Fatman _has a low trajectory, you need to aim it higher than the target."

"I noticed, and I'll bear that in mind."

Lyons nodded grimly, then adopted a bent-kneed gait as she moved cautiously out into the open. The tramp of the Behemoth was ever-present.

Jericho said, low to Clover. "I'm gonna try getting closer. If it doesn't seem to be going after her, make her bleed." He sidled away in the opposite direction to Lyons.

Arta tried to keep her eyes on both of them. In the soft, late afternoon light, Lyons' blonde hair and recon suit showed pale, as she cautiously skirted the plaza. Jericho was a dark blot in the dappled light around the statue. The Behemoth had paused, as though to listen, standing like a tower, it's breathing harsh.

A heavy clunk broke the quiet. Clover had thrown a rock in Lyons' direction. The Behemoth became alert. It ambled forward. Lyons began to run.

Clover said to Arta, "C'mon, let's get to the station doors, quickly!"

They sprinted straight across the courtyard, passing Jericho, who was performing Vargas' preparations in reverse, picking up the _Fatman_ first. The Behemoth was in headlong pursuit of Lyons who had reached the far end of the plaza and seemingly had nowhere to escape. Reaching the gates, Arta shouted into the intercom.

"Open the doors! We need to get inside now or we'll die!"

A somewhat apprehensive mechanised voice answered her. "With that thing running around? I don't think so! And who the hell are you, lady? Where's Sentinel Lyons?"

Unexpectedly Lyons reversed direction, catching the Behemoth by surprise. She managed to sprint through the narrow gap between the creature and the wall, giving it no room to swing its club.

Arta was screaming, "If you don't open the doors now, Sarah Lyons is going to die!"

"Okay, Okay, I'm opening them! Standby."

Lyons had gained a half a dozen yards on the Behemoth and was racing towards them. But the huge stride of her pursuer was closing that gap like a cat running down a mouse.

"Come on! Come on!" Arta shrieked. The doors were beginning to swing inwards as Jericho stepped forward, the launcher slightly raised and pointing at the Behemoth and Sarah Lyons.

"Got a present for you, Frankenstein!"

"No don't, she's too close!"

The mini-nuke described a parabola towards its target, landing precisely under the Behemoth's pounding feet. The explosion lifted it soaring into the air like a whale breaching. The heat of the blast extended outwards to the threshold of the doors, just as they parted enough to allow Arta and Clover to throw themselves inside.

There was a heavy crashing noise, and then silence. Arta looked up to see a bio-helmeted figure in grey power armour standing over her.

"I'm Knight Finley. What's happened to Sentinel Lyons?"

There was a step outside the doors. A figure stood silhouetted against the light.

"Some bad news for you."

* * *

"Is this what we came all the way to see?" Clover looked round disapprovingly at the GNR offices. "A dark, poky room, with junk everywhere."

"What were you expecting?" Arta asked sarcastically. "The Desert Queen's Palace?"

"You don't have to act so mean." Clover pouted. "At least I helped you get here. You'll thank me for it eventually."

Arta decided there was no point remaining angry with Clover. She had probably acted the way she thought best in circumstances that were near hopeless. But she was less inclined to give Jericho the benefit of the doubt, whether or not that was consistent or made sense. Perhaps suspecting this, the ex-Raider had mostly maintained a stony silence. Now he spoke tersely.

"We're here to see Three Dog, and those tin-cans said he was waiting for us upstairs. Forget the junk."

"Wait a minute!" Clover picked up a rounded, black object lying on a desk. "Look! A cowgirl hat! With a Sheriff's star on it!" She placed it firmly on her head. "Maybe Three Dog'll sell it me for a few caps. It will be my lucky star."

Arta was unable to resist a smile. "It suits you. Maybe your luck will rub off; I could do with some right now. Let's go up."

A short flight of steps ascended from the centre of the room. Feeling a mounting sense of excitement, Arta led the way. Despite all the disappointments and difficulties, perhaps her quest was about to be crowned with success.

At the top of the stairs, a dark-featured man waited for them. He wore flamboyant shades, mercenary armour of an elegant cut and a bandana that looked stylishly rakish. He spoke in the jauntily animated tones they had become familiar from the radio.

"Greetings. I am Three Dog, the great and powerful, lord and master of the finest radio station ever to grace the Wasteland. I know who you are, and I've heard why you've come. Still it's always good to be able to compare hearsay to the reality."

Arta hesitated, a little daunted by the unashamed bravado of the introduction. Figuring that she would be unable to match Three Dog's flare for showmanship, she decided to not even try.

"I'm Artemesia Wendell. And I'm glad to hear you want to separate truth from fiction. Because your radio has been propagating lies about me."

Three Dog seemed momentarily taken aback. Then he chuckled. "Hey, you're not so different from your old dad! He's a plain-spoken sort, a real straight-up guy. Look, Three Dog's always prepared to hear someone out. I learned from my parents to question the lies of propagandists. If my sources prove to be less than reliable, then I'll apologise and retract. Tell it to me in your own way."

Arta took a moment to consider, decided to cut through the complexities. "The main thing I want to say is that we're not slavers, Raiders or in any way allied with them. We're in nobody's pocket. We're on a mission of mercy to help save Megaton and to find my father. You said on the radio that he was here."

Three Dog gave an approving nod. "At least some of that is supported by what I've heard. The problem is there's a contradiction in the evidence. You're here with a notorious ex-Raider and Eulogy Jones' henchwoman. Can you explain that to me?"

Feeling herself on trickier, more shifting ground, Arta said cautiously, "My companions' pasts have been … troubled. But they've tried to put those behind them, and without their loyalty I would almost certainly not be here."

Unable to keep silent, Clover broke in, "And Three Dog, I was Eulogy's slave, not his henchwoman. I've learned to think for myself now."

Three Dog said in a tone of scepticism, "All that _sounds _mighty fine. But what went on at the Temple of the Union? Didn't seem like anyone was putting aside his or her pasts there!"

Realising that she was treading a fine line between revealing too much or too little, Arta said slowly, "What happened there was … regrettable. But I can assure you it was because of Eulogy Jones' trickery. I never intended to betray those people."

The disc jockey looked unconvinced. "So you say."

Jericho seemed to think it was time to add his five bottle caps' worth. "Speaking of Raiders, maybe you heard the Death Seeker and Black Scorpion Clans have not long had their arses handed to them? Guess who did that."

"I heard somethin' of that kind," Three Dog conceded. "But it don't necessarily signify I can trust ya."

Arta felt that the whole point of being in GNR was being lost amidst the inquest. "Three Dog, I just want to see my Dad. Please tell me where he is!"

"Whoa, whoa, give me a nanosec to catch up! Look, your Dad _was _here, but now he's not." Observing Arta's expression collapsing like a demolished building, he added. "And I can see you're more than a little disappointed about that. But try to chill. Three Dog can tell you where he's gone, _if _you can convince me that you're on the level."

"And how do I do that exactly?"

"By contributing to the Good Fight." Seeing Arta's blank look, he continued. "Consider a picture of the Wasteland. Everywhere people are trying to cope with Post-Apocalyptia, to get by day to day. But then there's all kinds of shit: slavers, Raiders, Supermutants, twisted mercs and so forth, fighting over a piece of the pie. GNR was set up to counter that, by telling people the truth about what's going on, instead of all that Enclave bullshit."

Jericho laughed, "Yeah you're making a great difference sitting here in your big guarded bunker!"

"Hey, everyone's gotta a different way to fight the Good Fight. I use my voice. You guys are more the action types, which is why you can help me _and _contribute to the Fight."

Arta said wearily, "Look tell me where my dad is, and we'll see what we can do for you."

"Not so fast! First you gotta help." When Arta said nothing, he continued. "See GNR is like my baby. But at the moment her cry can't be heard in much of the Wastes. That's 'cos a Supermutant thought it'd be fun to shoot at our big dish on the Washington monument. Right now anywhere far from central DC is snake city: nothing but 'hiss'. We need a replacement, and the only place we can think to get one is in the Museum of Technology, off the old Lunar Lander."

Jericho said, "Let me get this right. You want us to go to a museum in the Mall, which is ninety-nine point fucking nine percent certain to be stiff with Supermutants, to get you an old radio dish. Then you might find it in your heart to help us."

"You got it in a nutshell."

Arta and her companions exchanged glances. Their verdict was instant and unanimous. She said, "Sorry but there's no way we're doing that. We only got here by the skin of our teeth."

"Then sorry, I can't help ya."

"Look we need my dad's knowledge to disarm Megaton's atomic bomb. If that's not contributing to your Good Fight, I don't know what is."

"And if you could convince me that's why you're here, I'd agree. On your current form, I just ain't sure enough."

Arta gave Jericho a significant look. "Well that's too bad. 'Cos you're gonna tell us what you know … or we'll blow your head off." She drew her SMG.

Jericho had already unslung his assault rifle. Thrusting it next to an alarmed Three Dog's head, he slammed the firing bolt loudly. "That's right, _compadre_."

"Hey, smoke a peace pipe, man, calm down," the DJ spluttered. "You kill Three Dog, you ain't gonna know shit, and you'll buy yourself a whole heap of trouble with the Brotherhood."

Clover added the Blackhawk to the weapons pointing at the beleaguered jock. "Compared to going on a suicide mission for you, that doesn't sound very scary."

Arta said with as much menace as she could summon up, "We're not in the mood for messing around any longer. I'll give you a count of three. One … Two …"

"Okay, okay!" Three Dog was perspiring freely. "I guess you gotta point about helping the Good Fight in your own way. Hold your horses, and I'll explain everything."

Arta said, "You'd better."

"Yeah, talk fast, arsehole," Jericho added.

"Right. So your dad, and me, we had a good old chat about this and that. I clocked he was some kind of egghead, due to the fact that some of the things he was talking about didn't make a lot of sense to me at first. Like about this 'Project Purity'. Well eventually I figured it had something to do with providing the whole Wasteland with pure water. 'The Waters of Life', he called it."

"_The Waters of Life!"_ Arta exclaimed. Her mother's favourite Bible verse!

_I am Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End. I will give unto him who is athirst of the fountain of the Water of Life freely._

So that was what her dad had been planning! She was stunned by the implications. But how? Of course, the Garden of Eden Creation Kit! He wanted to find and use it somehow.

She waved her automatic. "And where has he gone to find these _Waters_?"

"Well he said he was gonna see …" Three Dog's voice faltered. His eyes travelled down to his chest. A red dot of light hovered there. As they watched it rose and settled on his forehead. "Oh holy crap!"

The disc jockey's head exploded in a shower of blood. The bark of a gun echoed and re-echoed around the room.

Clover spun, pointing the Blackhawk down the stairwell. A second report followed. The blonde staggered, looking dazed.

"My lucky star," she said in a bemused voice. Her eyes rolled up, and she slumped limply to the floor.

The tight beam of a sniper rifle's laser sight pierced the darkness of the stairwell. The features of the man in black holding the weapon were obscured by sunglasses.

He said pleasantly, "Unless anyone else feels like crossing the River of Death, I'd suggest remaining perfectly still."

* * *

Would've liked to include more Nova in this very combat orientated chapter. Regardless of relevance to the main plot, she's something of a favourite. Hopefully the space and inspiration will be there next time.

In the game, the _Fatman _can be acquired from a dead Brotherhood soldier. But by game conventions which we often accept unquestioningly, bodies are containers for the dead person's equipment regardless of size. Of course in 'reality' a Master would notice such a large and powerful weapon lying there, and use it.

_The great and powerful _For some reason I couldn't help thinking of Dorothy and her companions meeting the Wizard Of Oz in the Emerald City.

The next chapter is a critical one, so stay tuned!


	30. The Stuff of Dreams

Ch 30 The Stuff of Dreams

Clover felt a sharp pain in her head which quickly faded. Thick darkness gathered before her eyes, and she seemed to float in an empty void. Just as she was beginning to feel lonely and afraid, the gloom lessened, and she once again stood on firm ground. But it was the black granite of Wasteland rocks, not the cracked grey concrete of the GNR building. The darkness was that of a night in the Wastes, though the stars seemed bigger and brighter than usual, appearing to hang lower in the sky. The moon was at the full, showing a brilliant, ivory-white face. Everywhere there was a profound silence, as though the entire land slumbered.

In an instant Clover recognised her surroundings. The Seeing Stones, where she had so often stood with Uncle Leo, and more recently, with Arta, overlooking the lands they had just travelled across. She was baffled as to how she could have come so far, even though, when she had _gone __to__ sleep_, it had still been daylight. Surely it would've been too difficult to carry her such a distance …

Without knowing exactly how long it had been so, Clover realised she was not alone. A woman stood next to her, wearing the long white coat of a scientist or doctor. She had black hair that hung to her waist like a waterfall, and skin so pale that it looked almost the same hue as her apparel, as though she had never been in the sun. Her lips, however, were a bright red, resembling the colour of blood. She was older than Clover by ten years or more, appearing to be in her mid thirties. Clover felt there was something strange about the way she remained perfectly still, turned in Clover's direction, yet seeming not to look at her directly, as though she were someone unable to see, but using senses other than sight.

She spoke suddenly. Her voice was clear, with a soft, rich intonation, the manner of someone educated, perhaps even privileged. _Rather like Arta, _Clover thought._ She even looks a little like her._

"I've been looking forward to meeting you for quite a while, Clover"

"Really?" Clover asked, surprised. "You know my name, but I've no idea who you are."

"No," the woman said. "But you may have heard about me from someone you know well."

"Who? And what's _your_ name?"

The woman smiled with her red lips, showing her teeth slightly in a way that Clover did not like very much. "My daughter may have spoken of me," she said. "My name is Catherine."

Clover felt a growing sense of unease. The name sounded familiar and for some reason led her to think of the strange circumstances in which she'd arrived in this place. She shivered. It seemed colder than before.

"How did I get here?" she asked. "I remember something hit my head." She paused, then said slowly. "I think I was shot."

"You _were_ shot," the woman called Catherine said. "Shot in the head."

Clover said, "But that would mean I would most likely be …" her voice trailed off.

"Perhaps," Catherine's smile grew a little wider. "By the normal laws of science and probability."

"Are you a scientist?" Clover asked. "Or an angel?"

The woman threw back her head and laughed. "How charming!" she said. "So simple and direct in your thinking!" She seemed to reflect. "Perhaps I was an angel once. Now I'm merely a saint. My dear, foolish husband James sanctified me."

And Clover, looking into the woman's blue-grey eyes, saw they caught no light of the moon shining directly upon her pallid features.

"You're Arta's mother," she said. "And you're dead."

Catherine said nothing but seemed to incline her head.

"I'm here talking to a dead person," Clover said. "So I must be dead too."

"That doesn't always signify." Catherine gave another quick smile. "Don't the dead come to you in dreams?"

"I guess. Uncle Leo does sometimes."

"A bad example." Catherine tutted. "Your Uncle Leo is still among the living."

"He is!" Clover exclaimed excitedly. "Where is he, what's he doing?"

Catherine shook her head. "I'm sorry. I cannot tell you that. Or rather, I _must_ not."

"But that's not fair!" Clover expostulated. "Why are you here then? Do you want to talk about Arta?" When Catherine did not reply, she continued, "Is _she_ an angel then?"

"She is someone very special," Catherine said. "I know because I gave birth to her."

"But is she the Angel of Death?"

Catherine's red lips smiled again. "What do you think, Clover? What _is _an angel?"

"It's …" Clover frowned and considered the question. "I don't really know," she admitted.

"Then I'll help you. Isn't an angel a kind of dream?" Clover shrugged uncertainly and Catherine continued. "Since the human race began its struggle to survive in a world that often appeared strange and hostile, it has imagined gods, angels and demons, and propitiated them in the hope of being delivered from peril or hardship or guilt. So these beings have become part of the dreams of humanity, isn't that right?"

"But I thought angels were sent by God?" Clover objected.

"Angel means _messenger_. But do you believe in God?"

Clover looked round nervously. "This doesn't seem a good moment to say that I don't!"

Catherine laughed. "You are wise," she said. "Still, poor old God! People expect him to solve the problems of the world while believing he was responsible for making it in the first place. They ask for forgiveness, yet how can he forgive us for being what we are?" She gave a slight wince. "And they talk about scientists 'playing god' as though that were a bad thing too. They're easily confused."

"Perhaps. But scientists playing god have got us where we are now. In deep, radioactive shit."

"True. And we've had the effrontery to believe we can rescue humanity from our own mistakes. Our arrogance is incredible. Not surprisingly, almost no one believes in us anymore. And that's where angels come in." Catherine's dead eyes stared into the distance. "In their tribulation the people cry out for a saviour. And lo! Their dream seems close to fulfilment."

Clover said, "You mean, Arta, don't you?"

"In many of the possible futures, she might be. That's the thing about dreams. Some come true; some don't. And some turn into nightmares."

"I don't understand."

"Others also dream of the purification of the Wasteland. For them it means the destruction of all except a self-proclaimed elite. Even now the power of one such stretches out towards my daughter."

"Burke! He's gonna try to kill her!"

"Killing her might not be the worst of it. Future generations may revere me as the sainted mother of their Messiah. Or curse me for bringing to birth a monster as vile as Adolf Hitler."

"Who was he?"

"A leader who set the world at war, and tried to eliminate whole races of people."

Clover said, "That's mad."

"Yet many followed him, and may follow another such, even to the death."

"But Arta would never do anything so evil!"

"Are you sure? No one is evil at the beginning, but must become so. How easily are our intentions changed from making sacrifices in a noble cause to unashamed, wholesale slaughter. And how difficult not to turn the Wastes into a killing field."

"She weeps for every death she causes!"

"Maybe. But it hasn't stopped her, has it?" Catherine spoke dryly.

Despite herself, Clover could see the ghost woman had a point. "What can we do then?"

"I can do nothing, except to show you the way. However you as her companion may influence the outcome; for good or ill, as you decide."

Clover said, "How can I when I'm here amongst the dead?"

"You hover between life and death. If your belief is strong enough, you may return. Even Death may draw back before the power of faith."

"Faith in what?"

"In whatever helps you to believe. As I did once, and as my husband still does." Catherine seemed to bow her head, as though in regret.

Clover said, "I don't have anything much to believe in. But I want to go back."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise when Arta looks for me by her side, I won't be there."

The ghost gave a wintry smile. "Your simplicity may be your salvation. You offer comfort to my daughter in the hour of her need. It could be enough." She raised a finger to point heavenwards. "Look up to the sky. What do you see?"

Clover said, "I see the moon and stars."

"The stars have often been a symbol of hope; that is your way."

"But I can't reach them!"

"This one you can. Take it."

Catherine opened her left hand, which Clover hadn't noticed had been clenched. In her palm lay a small flat object. Looking closer, Clover saw it was a five-pointed silver star, a sheriff's badge. The metal was dented and warped, as though something hard and unyielding, like a bullet, had struck it.

Struck it and been _deflected._

* * *

The shock of Three Dog's death, taking with it any immediate hope of finding her father, followed by the trauma of seeing Clover shot, had left Arta's mind empty of fear, reason and restraint. A kind of howl arose from deep in her throat like an animal wounded or bereft. Ignoring the near suicidal folly of doing so, she reached down to pull her smg from its holster and revenge herself upon the killer who had doubly deprived her of her loved ones.

The machine pistol was halfway to being levelled before something struck her right arm with a force like a thunderbolt, sending pain ripping through her nerve fibres as though they had become fine hot wires. Unmediated by the numbing effect of combat drugs, it was torment worse than any she had experienced before, changing her outcry into a shriek of agony, and forcing her to release her grip on the weapon. Blood began to spray, and she looked down to see a horrifying, jagged wound just below the elbow joint. At the same time coldness crept from her arm, to her shoulder and then over her heart, and she felt herself begin to faint.

Just before she lost consciousness, she heard someone snarl, "Stupid. Very, very stupid." The darkness was an almost welcome refuge from the pain in her body and her mind.

If there were dreams, she did not remember them. All too soon, it seemed, she felt herself rising unwillingly out of oblivion as though from the bottom of a deep, dark ocean. There were sounds coming from above, voices echoing faintly.

"If she dies, then you'll follow her."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm doing every damn thing I can. I'm not a fucking medic."

"You saved me once with a field dressing."

"And ain't I regretting it now? You were a … special case. And even then, we needed our sawbones to sort out your internals, as far as we could understand 'em."

"She's coming round. Luckily for both of us."

The first thing that swam into Arta's blurred vision was Jericho's bearded visage, shifting in and out of focus like a spectre. She could feel him doing something to her arm, which was now bathed in the soothing glow of med-x. The mattress she was lying on was comfortable, if somewhat dirty.

Jericho loomed in front of her again, peering closely. "Kid, if you can hear me, blink twice."

She blinked, but another face intervened, framed by a sandy beard and short, blonde hair. Above the tight, thin lips and pointed nose, reflective sunglasses were removed to reveal the sapphire depths of eyes that were prisms of the light at the heart of gemstones or glacier ice.

"Try to speak. Tell me your name." His voice was relaxed, almost pleasantly soothing.

She tried, could manage only a croak.

"Give her water."

The coolness and purity of the liquid was a balm for the back of her throat, better by far than the unpleasant irradiated variety she'd become accustomed to drinking.

"Your name?" The man continued with calm insistence.

"Clover." As her voice strengthened, she added, "From Paradise Falls."

A dry chuckle followed. "Eulogy Jones' bodyguard, I presume?"

"That's right."

The chuckle turned into a laugh. "You're lying! Quite impressive, in the circumstances; certainly a show of greater wit than your companion has managed to date. I was beginning to wonder at Burke's obsession, particularly after that last piece of foolishness." The tone changed. "Nevertheless, if you attempt to lie to me again, I will hurt you in ways that will make you regret the day you were born. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Your name?"

"Fuck you."

"You remain amusingly obstinate. Very well, Miss Artemesia Wendell. I know who you are from your description and the fact you're accompanied by old Jericho here. Would you like to hazard a guess at who I am?"

"A murdering son of a bitch?"

"Priceless! But I'm beginning to lose patience." Arta's left hand was lifted, quite gently. "I want you to answer my next question accurately, clearly, politely and without evasions. Or I will begin to break your fingers, very slowly. Where were you born?"

"I don't know."

Arta gave a sharp intake of breath, and Jericho said hastily, "Sam, let her alone, for fuck's sake! She doesn't know. She was taken to a Vault by her dad when she was a babe in arms."

Walsh had continued to bend the finger back, but stopped with apparent reluctance. "Fascinating. Still I'm finding this conversation just a little hard going. Let's see if you're more inclined to speak with the person who's paid so much to find you." A ten-millimetre pistol elongated by a silencer pointed lazily in Jericho's direction. "If you would do the honours. The frequency is 275, your call sign is _Rapier_ and the response is _Broadsword._"

Arta became aware that the bed she was lying on was close to several banks of electronic machinery, with a set of headphones atop. As rows of lights flashed on and off, she could hear the sound of _Butcher__ Pete _playing at a low level.

_He's hackin and wackin and smackin,_

_He just hacks and wacks, choppin that meat._

Evidently it was from this spartan room that GNR's charismatic disc jockey had carried on his lone 'Good Fight', and although his struggle was over, the songs continued to play.

"What in hell makes you reckon I've any notion how to use this?" Jericho grunted.

"Because you've obviously had advanced military training unavailable to most of the drugged-up crazies you used to boss. Radio communication is a standard Special Forces skill. Just get on with it."

As Jericho picked up the phones, Arta managed to half-rise from the bed and check her arm. It had been expertly bandaged, and a tourniquet applied. Fixing the assassin with a look of hatred, she asked, "So how did you find us again, _Mister _Walsh? Did you enjoy your wild goose chase around Old Olney?"

Walsh seemed indifferent to Arta's contempt. He said, "Such old fashioned courtesy is typical of a Vault dweller, but you may call me Sam, if you wish. Your friend Clover was clumsy in misdirecting me to a location known to be haunted by Deathclaws. I wondered why you would choose to go there, and bearing in mind her recent encounter with one of those monsters, I concluded that it was probably a spur of the moment fabrication. Hence I returned to follow her."

"And it took you _this_ long to catch us up? Maybe your reputation is exaggerated after all."

"Well thereby hangs a tale too long to relate now. Suffice to say Giant Radscorpions can be well armoured and persistent enough to give almost anyone trouble. I followed your trail to the river but didn't realise you'd entered the metro until Jericho conveniently emerged with one of his Raider whores. I see he's been going back to his roots."

"I take it you were too chicken shit to mess with them or the Brotherhood."

"Only when absolutely necessary; no one is left alive in this building except for ourselves. But I saw no reason to add to my task. Your rather diverse groups of friends conveniently cleared the way back of ghouls and Supermutants. Indeed I must applaud the manner of your progress thus far. The way you handled the behemoth was particularly amusing, and akin to my own methods. I'm sure Burke would've applauded heartily."

"I don't care to win his approval or yours."

"Well, you'll shortly get the opportunity to tell him that yourself."

All the rage and hurt Arta felt at the loss of Clover surged up inside her, and she shouted. "You work for a monster … you _are_ a monster. How can you … do what you do … kill people without pity, without regret?"

The blue eyes seemed like a reflective surface in which her soul had found its mirror. "Because it is the thing that I do. You, you of all people, you _must_ understand."

* * *

"_Rapier calling Broadsword, Rapier calling Broadsword, come in Broadsword__ …_ "

The Talon mercenary crouched on the freeway span, wearing a set of earphones connected by a flex to a bulky portable radio pack.

"Sir, we have an incoming call from Rapier. Doesn't sound like him, but the codeword is correct."

Burke turned from his contemplation of the sunset over the river wharves. "Reply with the counter sign and ask him if he has the girl."

"Rapier, this is Broadsword." The radio operator relayed the request, awaited a response. "He says 'yes', sir," he reported.

Burke nodded to himself with satisfaction. "Let me speak to him," He took the headset, and placed it over the top of his hat, taking care to avoid creasing it. There was a crackle of static, along with some heavy breathing. With a sense that all was not quite what it should be, he ventured, _"__All __sins__ forgiven_?"

"You arsehole, Burke!" The bear-like growl from the earpiece caused Burke to wince.

"What the devil …" he began.

There was more static, followed by the voice of Sam Walsh, saying, _"Give me that, you fool!" _After a pause, "Sorry, this is Rapier, for real. _"The voice of one crying in the Wilderness._"

Burke sighed with relief. "Okay, you can drop the code-speak. In the unlikely event someone else is monitoring this frequency, they're hardly going to be baffled. But try to remain discreet."

"Does that include concealing my location?"

"No, I need to know that."

"We're in GNR, surrounded by a lot of dead mutants and Brotherhood knights. How long before live ones turn up to replace them …"

Burke frowned. "I see. But surely you and the girl can get out, at least?"

There was a significant pause before Walsh replied. "She's been wounded … it may complicate matters."

Before Burke could say more, Arta's voice came, angry but weak, "The bastard shot me himself, Burke. That's what you get for employing heavy-handed butchers."

Caught between anger, concern and amusement, Burke purred, "My dear, I'm glad you've kept that fire within burning despite the unfortunate circumstances. I must apologise for any inconvenience you may have suffered. Sam I'm sure would not have used such extreme methods without good reason. Must I remind you that but for your stubbornness we would both be enjoying the comforts of Tenpenny Towers in complete safety?"

"And what about your plans for mass murder?"

"Let's not be diverted by such … details. First we must extricate you from the situation into which your rashness has brought you. Sam, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Bring her to the rendezvous point as quickly as possible. Do not take unnecessary risks. _Au __revoir,_ my dear. I look forward to our next meeting."

* * *

"We have to go immediately." Walsh waved his pistol in a threatening manner. "Before any more mutant or Brotherhood scum turn up."

"Arta's still not strong enough to walk," Jericho protested.

"You'll be the pack mule." Walsh regarded him unsmilingly. "Instead of porting a small ordinance dump around, you can carry her."

"I'd already figured there was a reason why I'm not stinking up the place, other than gratitude or professional courtesy."

"Gratitude? For selling me to Eulogy Jones for a small fortune in armaments?"

From her position resting on the mattress, Arta asked, "What's all this about? Why would Jones pay so much?"

"For a near unique slave? Why wouldn't he?"

Walsh made an impatient gesture, but Arta thought she could detect signs that he found the subject sensitive. "There isn't the time for this."

Jericho indicated with his eyes that he wanted her to help him keep the conversation alive. "You don't like to be reminded you're no longer human, do you? You were always a slave, even before we sold you."

"Don't think you can rile me this way!"

Without knowing exactly why Jericho was doing this, Arta decided she'd better play along. In any case, she was intrigued. "What do you mean, no longer human?"

"I'll tell you about it. The clan used to set traps for intruders, the kind of lethal ones designed to leave a very messy corpse behind. However one day we found someone who'd survived them ... just." Jericho nodded in Walsh's direction. "Him. We couldn't understand why he wasn't dead, until our sawbones started opening him up. Then we realised there was all manner of advanced tech inside: subdermal armour, reflex enhancers, artificial muscles and shit knows what else. More machine than human."

"You dare to suggest I'm less human than your bunch of psychos!" There was no doubt now about Walsh's strong emotional response.

Ignoring him, Jericho continued, "We patched him up as best we could. When we eventually got him to talk, he told us he came from some place called the Commonwealth, where they still remember enough of the past tech to make such things. Even completely artificial bods called androids. But he ain't one of those. He's gotta a human brain, and a body that's at least partly flesh and blood. Too bad they didn't leave him any proper human feelings."

Cocking the pistol, Walsh said, "Shut up, and get moving! You've no idea what you're talking about!"

Arta asked, "So he can still be killed?"

"Oh yes, we discovered several weak points." Jericho was speaking clearly and deliberately, and Arta had realised why. Clover was standing about ten paces behind Walsh, with the Blackhawk in her quivering hands. She was frowning with ferocious concentration, as she tried to hold the weapon steady on her target, looking as though she might collapse again any moment.

Trying to keep the hope and joy out of her face and voice, Arta said, "And where are they?"

"You have five seconds to comply with my orders!"

"The joints of the arms and legs, the groin and especially the face around the eyes, mouth and nose. Apparently they couldn't armour those places."

Walsh said to Arta, "This isn't going to help you one iota. Get on your feet, now!"

Arta could see Clover was attempting to sight through the scope at Walsh's right elbow. _Wait__ for __him __to__ turn,_ she thought silently. Aloud she said pitiably, "Please, I can't."

"I've already warned you what'll happen if you don't cooperate!" Walsh seized Arta's left arm with his own, and twisted it behind her back. She moaned in pain as she was forced to stand. Clover frantically readjusted her aim, as Walsh was now almost sideways on. The arm holding his weapon was exposed.

Clover fired. The pistol flew from Walsh's hand. With a snarl, he released Arta and reached back to unsling his sniper rifle. At the same time, Jericho bounded forward to grapple with him, catching the arm before the rifle could be levelled.

Clover aimed at the wildly struggling pair, unable to get a clear shot. Arta had sunk to the floor and was scrabbling for the fallen weapon. Walsh broke Jericho's grip and thrust him away, pivoted towards Clover.

The magnum thundered for the second time. The assassin's right eye-socket shattered in a bloody mess of tissue and bone. He swayed for a moment, the rifle waving wildly, then crashed forward heavily to the floor.

There was a silence, in which Walsh lay still. Then Clover staggered forward several steps before falling to her knees. Arta tried to rise, rolled onto the floor, and crawled forward to meet her. They came together in a kneeling position, wrapping arms around each another. Arta reached out to touch Clover's face, as though astonished, letting her fingers explore its contours. The impulse to let their lips, then their tongues brush was irresistible, to bury themselves in one another's hair, skin, warmth in an orgy of touching, caught in their own private paradise.

Each moment of bliss felt like a lifetime. But an end had to come, and Arta's awareness of her surroundings was restored by an impatient, rasping cough. Reluctantly prising herself away from Clover's embrace, she turned to see Jericho watching them, a cigarette projecting from the corner of his mouth. It seemed to Arta there was a shade more bitterness, cynicism and indignation to his expression than usual.

When he saw he had her attention, he said brusquely, "Don't shoot the messenger this time, but Walsh probably had the right idea. Chances are with so many mutants swarming through the DC ruins, they'll be back trying to get in here before long."

Clover said, "Arta's been wounded, and I'm not exactly bouncing around either." She clutched her friend protectively.

"Yeah, but that ain't a good enough excuse for staying in a death trap."

_If he was seriously bothered by what he's just seen, he's done a pretty good job of keeping it to himself,_ Arta thought. She said, "Granted, but at the moment there's no immediate threat we know of. We don't want to run into trouble without being able to fight or get away. Waiting even a short time might improve our chances considerably."

"Sure, it's a tough call but …"

Arta said, "We'll sit tight for a while." She tried to adopt the same decisive manner as when she'd overridden Jericho previously. However she was beginning to believe her control over his actions was illusory; that he would follow her lead only when it suited him.

It seemed that it did on this occasion. "Right then we'd best look round this _hacienda_ for anything that might help, and someone should check out those stiffs, especially Mr Walsh."

Clover said, "I'll do that." Her abrupt tone suggested she didn't entirely trust Jericho to do so. "Arta, you'd best stay quiet and rest."

Arta asked, "You're sure you're okay? I can't figure how you're still alive."

Clover touched her hat badge. "My lucky star. And … something else … maybe."

"I'm glad, because …" Arta lowered her voice "_because __I __love__ you.__"_

Clover looked stunned, "I …"

Putting a finger to her lips, Arta turned away. She regarded Three Dog's musical deck thoughtfully. All those tunes he'd played had probably meant more to the people of the Wasteland, and to her personally, than any amount of talk about 'the Good Fight'.

She said, "Perhaps while I'm resting there's something useful I can do."

* * *

"Why would an assassin carry a Bible?" Clover held up the ancient leather bound volume.

"Because he's gotta a lot more sins to repent of than the average joe?" Jericho quipped.

"They both have big issues with life and death," Arta agreed. "But it's not the whole Bible, just the New Testament."

"Feels kinda heavy anyway," Clover thumbed through the vellum sheets. "And he's marked a page … and a passage."

"Yeah, well if that's the best loot you can come up with, I'll stick with his custom sniper, armour and bullets," the ex-Raider snorted, as he continued to rifle through lockers and drawers.

"Which passage has he picked out?" Arta asked curiously.

Clover held the book up to the light. "A verse from Mark chapter one." She cleared her throat. _"__The__ voice __of__ one __crying__ in __the__ Wilderness.__, __prepare__ ye __the __way__ of__ the __Lord!__"_

"That's what he said to Burke!" Arta exclaimed. "Like it was some kind of code. But why choose that?"

"Dunno. Why'd they write this stuff so funny?" Clover pored over the page. "It seems to be about a crazy prophet who lived wild in the desert, ranting on about how someone was coming, more powerful than him."

"That kinda fits," Jericho said. "If anyone could survive in the deep Wastes, it was Walsh."

"But then what about the one who's coming?" Arta mused. "Burke, presumably."

Clover said slowly, "No, I don't think it is, and I wonder …" She stroked the leather cover thoughtfully, gave an exclamation. "Wait! There's something inside, hidden in a fold at the back." She slid her fingers inside the cover and pulled out a flat, rounded metal object, holding it up gleaming in the light. "What the hell's this? There's a butt …"

Without any kind of warning, Clover winked out of existence.

"Clover!" Arta shouted in horror.

Clover's panicked voice came out of thin air. "I … I'm still here. But I can't see my body. Its like I've become a ghost."

"Don't get your pants in a twist!" Jericho looked thoughtful. "Burke used one of these to escape from Arta: a Chinese stealth field generator. Can you turn it off?"

"No, there's only one button, and it doesn't do anything now." Clover gave a whimper. "What if I'm stuck like this, I don't like it!"

"Relax. It'll likely run out of power in the end, more's the pity. Here take this." He held up Walsh's silenced pistol, which promptly disappeared too. "Now fire it somewhere safe." There was the thud of a suppressed round, and a shimmering appeared in the air in front of them, a ghostly outline roughly the size and shape of Clover. "See firing disrupts the field, and I reckon other things will too. Very useful for concealing yourself and attacking while unseen, less so in a close-up firefight where the enemy may spot you. If we had three of these beauties, we could stroll outa here with no trouble."

"But we haven't," Arta said. "So … _what was that?_"

Jericho regarded her levelly. "Sounded like one of those noises buildings make. Getting jumpy? Well so am I. We're pretty much done here. How's the stims doing?"

"I've got enough movement back in my arm to shoot. And I think I can walk with help."

"Good. That might be enough for us to get somewhere safer, with more exits."

"And Clover?"

"Has less to worry about than any of us." Jericho grinned. "Who's gonna snipe or ambush the Invisible Woman? Reckon we got ourselves the perfect scout."

* * *

The darkened and forbidding entrance hall of GNR, with its upper catwalk and twin stairways leading down, reminded Arta of the Atrium in the Vault. The echoing spaces, the flickering shadows thrown on the walls by burning braziers and the prone figures of armoured knights lying motionless might equally have served as a backdrop to one of Grognak's brawls in a baronial castle. But it was the memory of the Holden twins being cut down and slaughtered that rose ominously in her mind, like a warning.

Jericho pointed downwards at one of the helmeted corpses slumped on the stairs. "Walsh's work, .308 armour-piercing rounds. See how the bullet entered precisely through the weak point of the visor. Poor fucker probably just had time to see the laser light before his brain exploded."

His words were almost swallowed up in the vast silence of the gloom-filled foyer. Arta felt a chill creep over her soul. Needing to lean on Jericho's shoulder to walk, her instinct was to depart this disquieting place as quickly as possible.

Sounding as insubstantial as a phantom moaning amongst the rafters, Clover's disembodied voice floated across the drafty hall. "Let me check its clear outside first."

"Okay, but hurry." Arta was shivering now, and her wound ached. Her sense of unease was growing as she looked around at the ink blackness of recesses, apertures and side chambers, and began to imagine them populated by hidden enemies.

Ghostly footsteps echoed across the stone floor, and the huge double doors began to part. As they did so, there came a noise like that of a distant crowd shouting or cheering. In the pale twilight revealed between the gaping portals tall figures stood silhouetted, grouped closely together as though ready to press inside.

"Back! Try to hide!" Jericho spluttered. He made no attempt to deploy any of his weapons. Arta was already shrinking back but from all corners of the hall there was movement, the tramp of heavy feet, hoarse breathing and the foul reek of unwashed bodies. The circle of the trap was closing around them.

Arta found Jericho was no longer beside her. Deprived of his support she sank down to her knees, and then flat to her belly, crawling like a worm towards the deepest shadows she could find. She could hear and smell the mutants moving nearby, almost treading on her. How could they not notice? She kept squirming her way in the direction of a recess, hoping against hope that it would prove to be a refuge. It went back much further than expected, seeming to form a zigzag shaped annex to the main hall.

A single gunshot rang out, followed by a wild yell and the shouting of many voices. Arta crouched in her hiding place, tears starting from her eyes. Her companions were in danger, and she could do nothing, merely cringe like a frightened animal! It was too much to bear! Slowly she drew her sword from its sheath but did not yet ignite the betraying flames. Gritting her teeth with the effort, she rose to her feet.

"Human." A harsh voice spoke from behind her. "I can see you. Put down your pathetic weapon, it is useless against the master race."

"No!" Arta said, but she felt her legs beginning to buckle. A great hand reached down to pluck the sword from her grasp and send it spinning. Then it clamped smothering over her face, and she felt her consciousness begin to ebb away into darkness.

* * *

Her mouth was dry, dry as Wasteland dust. Her arms were beginning to hurt, and were stretched out to either side of her and bound. She flexed her legs, and found she could slightly relieve the pressure and pain.

Opening her eyes, she was shocked to find herself suspended far above ground level. She was still in the dark and gloomy hall of the radio station. The double doors that might have led to freedom were below and directly in front of her. She was hanging from the upper catwalk, her head and body leaning forward, her arms extended and bent backwards like the wings of an angel.

The fear, dizziness and nausea were for a moment overwhelming, and she almost slipped back into unconsciousness. But a desire to learn the worst of her circumstances allowed her to resist. She turned her head painfully to her left, and saw Jericho, strung up in an identical posture. He was awake, and his eyes met hers grimly and steadily. She turned to her right, fearing to see Clover, but no one else was there.

Awareness of the pain in her arms, almost pulled from their sockets by the weight of her body, was ever growing. It seemed impossible to bear, and water came to her eyes.

"They're more merciful than Romans." Arta could hardly understand Jericho's gasped words. "Romans whipped prisoners … then crucified them."

Crucified? In the midst of her pain Arta's mind sorted through the piecemeal history taught to her in the Vault. _Crucifixion: an ancient form of punishment execution in which the victim is hung from or nailed to a cross._

"So, the human female is awake." A snarling voice came from below. Arta looked down to see the leather capped head of a Master. The monster appeared to find her plight amusing. "Comfortable? Are you ready to learn to fly?" It gave a grotesque chortle.

Anger at being taunted momentarily overcame the pain, and Arta managed to gather enough moisture in her mouth to rasp, "Damn you, you ugly creature!"

The mutant gave a bellow of laughter. "Hah! You think us ugly! Soon you will become like us, if you are strong enough."

_Become like us? What can it mean?_

As though divining her thought, the Master continued, "To become strong mutant, you must endure many changes, much pain. Weak humans will not survive. Before we make you one of us, you must pass the test of pain. Otherwise you die, and we will feed on your flesh." It gave another bark of mirth. "If you are alive when I return, then you will be taken to the place of changing. If not, time for dinner!"

Still chuckling, it stomped away. Arta tried to steel herself to speak again, managed to only grunt with agony.

"Arta, listen." She could make him out a little better now. "Crucifixion … I've seen it done … by Raiders. You can survive a long time … in the right position. Otherwise, you die quickly, painfully." He paused to gather strength. "See how I am. Below is a ledge. Rest your feet there … and support your upper body."

He stopped, apparently exhausted by the effort. But Arta had heard enough to begin altering her position according to his suggestions. Enough to reduce the pain to a level that was just about tolerable, and to slow down the sapping of her strength.

That achieved, she attempted to gasp out some words. "Changing us to mutants … is it possible?"

He nodded. "Heard rumours … they take captives … no one knows what happens but …"

Arta shuddered. The implication was plain. Summoning her strength, she asked, "What's the use then? Better to die than that."

"Gives us chance … to escape. Or be rescued."

Arta thoughts were drawn back to the moment of capture. "Clover … what happened?"

"Didn't get her … held her fire."

A sinking feeling afflicted Arta in the pit of her stomach. Clover had abandoned them and saved herself. It was understandable but …

Jericho hadn't finished. "Rescue here … difficult. Must kill guards first. To give us time … to recover." After a pause, he went on. "Outside … easier maybe. That's why … must survive first."

Arta nodded to show she'd understood. It made sense, but would Clover know? Or had she been captured or killed after all? To endure the pain with such a slender hope of rescue would be so hard.

She tried to think of something encouraging to say. "If I'm gonna die … it could be … in worse company."

Jericho made a horrible choking noise that sounded a little like laughter. "Thanks kid. Likewise."

And then they stopped speaking for a long while. Arta tried to concentrate on maintaining her position and blocking out the pain. But her thoughts went where they would.

For the first time she could understand the real suffering of the people of the Capital Wasteland. This was the brutal reality for many of them who hadn't been so lucky, as she'd been until now. They withered, or were cut down, or were enslaved, or tortured. And so it would continue. Unless … unless something happened. Something that would bring them together, give them hope.

She could see there were ways to bring this about and factions who could assist. The Brotherhood of Steel for instance. But its narrow focus on technology and on destroying the Supermutants, along with its internal divisions and elitism had so far prevented it from becoming a unifying force.

Her father's own plan might help … if it could be made to work. It would greatly improve the health of humans, and perhaps reduce the number of feral ghouls and other mutant creatures. But on its own, it wouldn't be enough.

Other darker possibilities remained. There was great wealth in Tenpenny Towers, and perhaps access to technology from outside the Wasteland. Much could be achieved with that, as Burke seemed to realise. But how could such a man be trusted? Then there were the Slavers, well equipped with money, men and arms, Even the diverse Raider groups if they could somehow be brought together. And maybe other factions unknown or obscure, such as the mysterious Enclave.

Any of these might combine to become a force that would transform the Wastes. But they needed something … or someone, to unite them. Something or someone to believe in.

Who or what could that be?

It seemed to her that the pain was growing again, and that her power to resist it was lessening. The urge to give up and die became more and more a tempting alternative to the constant suffering.

"Arta!" Jericho's croaking voice impinged on her awareness. "Arta, don't go to sleep! If you do, you'll die."

She tried to reply, but instead coughed blood.

"Come on, fight!"

She wanted to fight, but there was something rising in her consciousness, like a great cloud of blackness, and as she tried to draw breath, it swallowed her up.

* * *

Arta awoke to find herself lying on a bed of temper foam, in a metal-walled room with a long, shuttered window. She sat up and realised she was in her sleep-cell in Vault 101. Rather than claustrophobia and despair, she felt welcome relief to have at last come home, and comfort at the sight of her familiar possessions. Her baseball glove, teddy bear and a framed copy of her mother's favourite verse were all in the usual places they had occupied since she was a child.

From around the L-shaped corner of the room, where her father had his own bed and relaxation area, she heard a distinct clicking noise. Driven by curiosity, she rose from the bed, and tiptoed to investigate.

A single lamp illuminated two men, or so they appeared, sitting at the small table where she had sometimes eaten or played games. A chessboard had been set out between them.

Arta moved nearer for a better look. The players ignored her, facing each other, apparently intent on the game. They both wore clothing of a similar hue to the pieces they commanded. Arta immediately recognised the white player on the left as the robed and bearded man she had dreamed of in the cemetery. To the right was a cloaked and hooded figure resembling the skeletal nightmare she had struck at with her sword of flame.

She turned her attention to the board. Her father had taught and encouraged her to play, as he believed chess to be a good form of mental exercise. The game seemed evenly poised, with both sides having lost a few pawns and minor pieces. On closer inspection, she could see that the ivory figures had a resemblance to people and creatures with which she was familiar. The pawns were carved into the semblance of ghouls, Raiders, Radscorpions and other denizens of the Wastes. And the castles, bishops and knights had human faces, some of which she thought she recognised. One of the bearded black bishops lying on its side next to the board bore a strong resemblance to Colin Moriarty. A white knight still in play had a Stetson with a sheriff's badge.

The black queen was in the centre of the board. It was an elaborate piece with four angel-like wings and a sword in its right hand. The head had a peculiar appearance, and Arta perceived this was because it possessed two faces. One looking in the opposite direction she was unable to see properly, the other was clearly visible.

It was her own.

The white robed figure spoke. "You expose your Queen. I threaten it with my pawn." He moved forward a piece with the likeness of a Supermutant master.

The hooded figure replied in the whispering tone Arta recalled from her dream. "The Angel of Death cannot truly die. You know that."

"The dark dream that it brings may yet be averted."

His counterpart seemed to shrug bony shoulders. "Black, white, what is the difference? I will reap a harvest of souls however the game proceeds."

Mildly the white player retorted, "Necessary deaths in a good cause." He tapped his own queen which also had wings but only a single head.

_It has my face too! What can this mean?_

A dry chuckle issued from beneath the hood. "Good? What is Good? Where I tread, I leave only dust and ashes. _That_ I find Good."

"Let us debate philosophy after the game is won. It is time for your move."

"Agreed. I take your pawn with my bishop, and give check to your king

The bony hand reached out to remove the mutant piece, putting it at the side of the board next to a toppled white bishop with a bandana and moving its own black one forward into the empty space next to the Queen. Arta stared hard at the exquisitely carved features of the bishop giving check. Balding with a hard, cynical grizzled visage, the stub of a cigarette protruding from between its lips. A face she could never forget.

The room grew suddenly darker, and she heard the black player's hiss. "In the end, I cannot be defeated."

The white player was already moving his hand. "I interpose my Knight and fork your Bishop and Queen."

As the shadows closed in around her, Arta could still see the ivory whiteness of the blocking piece. The body was massive and muscular, with legs like the trunks of young trees. But the face … the face was … lost in the dark.

* * *

As Jericho watched Arta's body slump, his feelings of despair and loss were tempered by a strange kind of relief._ It's funny; I thought she'd be stronger. But she's been through a helluva lot, and maybe this is the most merciful end she could hope for now. I should be glad. Watching someone you care about suffer is almost as bad as suffering yourself .No, that ain't exactly true. No way could anything be near as bad as this. And now it looks like I'm gonna die alone. _

_Well what did I expect? I've been alone all these years. I could've spent another dozen or so drinking myself to death. Not so painful but not very fucking dignified. I didn't want it to end like this, but I've no regrets about returning to the Wastes. I found my daughter, and that's enough. Enough to give me a little hope that the mess that's been my life might achieve something not altogether twisted. _

_A little hope is better than none at all._

A sudden gasp interrupted his train of thought. Raising his head with difficulty, he saw that Arta was stirring again. _Please god, if you can't allow her relief, give her strength!_

Her voice came as clearly as a bell softly struck.

"There is no death, there is no pain."

_What the hell's she saying? _ With an effort, he managed, "I thought I'd … lost you. Try to … get back into position."

She turned her head towards him, and her eyes gave back the firelight. "I say there will_ be_ no death."

_Poor kid, it's been too much. Her mind's finally gone_." Take it easy."

"I will do so. We can leave here whenever I wish."

_Completely__ loopy._ As gently as he could, he said, "Yeah, yeah, sure we can."

The blue fires continued to blaze. "Believe it! I have but to ask and my father will send twelve legions of angels to my aid."

_Maybe this is some kind of mercy too._ "Right."

Incredibly she seemed to be straightening up, and there was even a smile on her face. "There's no need to fear. Death cannot touch us when I hold it in my hand."

* * *

"Take the human female down." Jericho jerked back to wakefulness. He'd almost passed out like Arta, and began to mentally berate himself before the implications of the words came home to him.

A large, sturdy looking Supermutant stood below them. It was not a Master, nor did it appear to be one of the feared Overlords Jericho had heard vague rumours about. Yet it spoke with confidence and authority.

The guard, an ordinary mutant ranking below even a Brute, scratched its head while considering the order. Eventually it said ponderously, "But prisoner not been tested long enough."

The new arrival reacted with irritation. "Stupid dum-dum! What do you know about anything? Get the prisoner ready to go to Vault 87. The Master has commanded it."

The guard indicated compliance, its tone subservient. "The Master commands, I obey." It bustled up the stairs towards the upper catwalk, stopped next to Arta.

"Be careful you don't hurt the human, dum-dum. Remember they're not strong like us."

"Yes, yes, not hurt. Need them to make more of us." The guard began to remove the bindings on Arta's left arm

_So at least one of us is gonna survive after all,_ Jericho thought. _But at what cost?_ He winced as Arta cried out. However careful the mutant thought it was being, the act of releasing her must be causing excruciating pain. Jericho realised that she was beginning to chant something under her breath.

"_Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."_

The guard was working on the other arm, assisted by its superior, who was making sure Arta didn't fall. Her voice increased in volume.

"_Thy kingdom come, thy will be done …"_

"Shut up, stupid human!" thundered the guard.

"_On earth, as it is in heaven."_

The task of freeing Arta being complete, the larger mutant very carefully lifted her from the wall onto the catwalk. As it did so, she gave another piteous cry.

The guard said concerned, "Female not die?"

"No, dum-dum! Get food and water fit for humans; she must be strong for her journey."

Jericho could hear the guard stomping away grumbling. He was unable to keep his eyes on the other Supermutant until it had almost reached the bottom of the stairs. Arta hung limp in its arms, yet Jericho thought there was something almost tender about the way the monster held her.

It stood beneath him again, looking up, permanently bared teeth fixing its expression in the savage grimace exhibited by all Supermutants. It was then that he noticed something he'd missed before. Around its neck was a silver chain, and dangling from it the most unlikely of trophies.

The mutant cast its glance to left and right, as though to make sure it was alone, before speaking in a lower tone.

"Do not fear; no harm will come to her. I must take her now to a place of safety. I will return as soon as I can. Until then, be strong and have faith."

From the end of the chain hung a pair of broken reading glasses.

* * *

_Am I awake or asleep? Is this real or a dream? _ She was lying down once more, this time on something leathery. A feeling of well-being suffused her body, as though her veins were filled with liquid helium, buoying her up. Objects swam in her peripheral vision, and sounds seemed to warp and shift tone.

"Arrrtaa can you hearrr meee?" She turned her head slightly towards the sound of the voice, which seemed familiar despite the distortion. As she did so, a soft hand clasped around her own, the fingers interlocking firmly as though to anchor her within this reality.

A second voice came through more clearly. "She's pumped so full of drugs she may not be able to see or make sense of anything for a while."

She stared up at the high, stone ceiling, fascinated by the reflections of firelight moving across it, like the spectral remnant of remembered pain, of a hall lit by burning braziers. And as patterns can appear in flames, so the shapes around her gradually took on meaning. Closest was the outline of a woman with a crest of spiky hair.

_A Raider! Did I escape from Supermutants only to be captured again? Or is this one long nightmare?_

She made a greater effort of concentration, and the woman came into focus. It was Raven. The Raider medic was holding up a drip and feeding it into her arm.

The person holding onto her hand continued to do so tightly.

"Clover!" A single tear trickled down Arta's cheek as she pronounced the name.

"Arta, dear! I love you too! And I thought I might never get the chance to say it." Clover dabbed at her eyes, which were brimming over. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't rescue you before, that you've had to suffer so much. There were so many Supermutants and by the time you came round, the stealth thing had worn off. I don't know what I'd have done if it hadn't been for …"

Clover stopped to look up, and Arta did likewise. This time she had no trouble identifying the Raider with the purple-dyed ponytails.

Katrina said, "He's come back with my dad. The poor old fucker may need some medical attention, though he'll probably pretend he's fine." She gave her usual slight smile. "Good to see you again, Arta. Don't worry, you're safe and amongst friends."

Arta took in more of her surroundings. She was on the upper level of the metro station where they'd entered central DC, lying on an improvised bed of leather Raider armour. Several Deathseeker clan members were squatting around a brazier, watching while two of their number played chess using a variety of improvised pieces, such as beer bottles, energy cells and garden gnomes.

She said weakly, "So I've you to thank for saving my life this time?"

Katrina shook her head, "Not me. _Him.__"_

Arta followed the direction of the Raider leader's pointing finger, and caught her breath. From the metro exit, a monstrous figure came striding, its head barely clearing the tunnel ceiling. In its massively sinewy arms Jericho lay as helpless as though he were a rag doll.

The approach of the creature caused no similar alarm or excitement amongst the Raiders; the two chess players did not even look up from their game. Despite the fierce aspect of its countenance, it laid down its burden as gently as a mother putting a small child to bed. Raven immediately went to assist Jericho, who was conscious, but also faintly embarrassed.

The huge Supermutant stood looking down at Arta, its fixed expression of savagery giving little clue to the emotions within. But when it spoke, its voice, although harsh, had an element of wistful sadness.

"I'm glad to see you've recovered at least partly from your ordeal. I can only apologise for your treatment at the hands of my fellow sufferers, who if they could be persuaded to recognise their fallen condition might yet be brought to enlightenment."

Astonished but moved, Arta said hesitantly, "Why are you, a Supermutant, helping us?"

The creature gave something akin to a sigh. "As one who was formerly human, you and I are akin by blood, but that's not the reason. I like to think of myself as part of the great community of thinking beings everywhere. All intelligent life is connected and deserves my respect and help."

Clover broke in, "He always was one for philosophising."

Arta gaped, "You _know_ him?"

"Yes." Clover drew herself up importantly. "Arta, I would like to introduce you to my Uncle Leo."

* * *

"There was much pain," Leo said. "Severe, and for a long time. Imagine the consequences of your body changing from this …" he pointed to Jericho, "to this." He tapped his own barrel chest. "That, along with the disorientation, could explain why the majority of my fellow sufferers are effected so badly by the transformation."

Arta asked, "If that's the case, if there's nothing inevitable about becoming savage, why were you unaffected?" She was sitting round the fire some time later with Clover, Katrina and Jericho, the former cuddled up next to her, the latter restored in health enough to chain-smoke.

Leo did not sit or squat because, as he'd explained, it wasn't something that Supermutants could manage easily, and it was less tiring to stand. "I cannot say that I was not. Even now I sometimes feel my wild nature, calling me away." He sighed deeply and reached down to touch the pair of spectacles hanging from his neck. "Yet to give up all vestiges of civilisation, of which this token reminded me, was more than I could bear. I recalled the great legacy of the past, of the many who'd contributed their ideas and imaginings in the writing of books. I had learned the practice of meditation, and when the pain grew worse, I would focus my thoughts on remembered favourite passages, and that eased my mind."

Clover said, "I'm sorry to ask this, Uncle, but why didn't you return to see Aunt Aggie? She misses you so, and I'm sure she'd understand that what happened wasn't your fault."

Leo gave a groan of anguish. "Ah, Agatha! How much I yearn for her companionship! Many times I've felt the temptation to go back, but always resisted it. You see my transformed body would horrify her, and I'm afraid that the shock might kill her. My experiences of wandering the Wastes have taught me that it's even harder to win the trust of human beings than of my fellow mutants. Humans see only this gross cage of flesh, and believe me an enemy, a monster. That's why my paths have in recent years taken me far from the ways of men; my mission is to bring more of my kind to an awareness of their lost humanity. Yes, I miss Agatha sorely, but it comforts me that she might yet live out her life in some kind of happiness and safety. The news of her you've brought me is very welcome."

Clover said, "I can understand all that, Uncle Leo. When I first saw you, I was afraid, and even after I thought I recognised the glasses, I didn't know whether you would know me. Being invisible helped give me the courage to speak." Leo nodded in acknowledgement, and Clover continued. "However I think if Aunt Aggie was somehow prepared before meeting you, she would still be glad of your company."

Leo gave another groan. "Alas, do not raise my hopes with such talk! My heart beats faster at the prospect! Yet it would still cause her great consternation, and I would be mortified should she pity me."

Clover said, "Yes, but …"

While the conversation between them continued, Jericho indicated to Arta with his eyes that he would like to talk with her apart from the others. When they had moved aside, he lit up another smoke and puffed on it vigorously before speaking.

"We've had some lucky breaks recently and no mistake."

Arta nodded, "Yeah, the way Clover somehow avoided death and Leo turned up was unbelievably fortunate, almost as though Fate wanted us to escape."

Jericho glanced at her through narrowed eyes. "Let's not be relying on our luck holding up. Because it certainly ain't been all good. Sam putting a bullet in Three Dog's head means we're almost back to square one as far as finding your dad and dealing with the bomb's concerned."

In a subdued voice, Arta said, "You're partly right, although I've a strong clue as to what he's looking for and where he might go to find it. Of course, I guessed at that even before we got to GNR but Three Dog's info virtually confirmed it." Looking at him earnestly, she continued, "I've been thinking a lot recently though. There's more to this than just the fate of Megaton. The whole future of the Wasteland is in the balance. Burke has one concept of it, my father has another … and I … well someone ought to be doing something to help people."

"Help? How'dyu mean, help? Ain't ya doing enough with this mission? As if saving Megaton ain't a big enough _enchilada_."

"I know how important it is, and as a matter of fact I've had another idea about how to save it. To be honest, I chose this way because it involved finding my dad too. But even if there's other reasons to find him now, I've realised I don't need his support anymore. I'm my own woman, and I'll take my own decisions.

Whatever you say about Burke, he has the ability to think big. And if he can, I can too. The people of the Wastes need someone to rally them, and something to rally round. Why can't that be something good rather than something evil?"

"Y'know I was kinda afraid you were gonna say something like that. You're talking about going on a goddamn crusade!"

"And if I am?"

"Then you can leave me behind. Apart from generally having a high body count, these crusades often end up making things worse not better."

Arta shrugged. "That's your decision. Clover will follow me at least. And maybe Katrina. I'm already beginning to make connections around the Wastes. Eulogy Jones, for example. I'll talk to anybody who might help in some way. The Brotherhood, too, of course. Owyn Lyons will probably admit anyone bringing news of his daughter's death."

Jericho almost choked on his cigarette. "What the fuck! You're gonna tell him how that happened? And drag my daughter into some crazy holy war!"

Arta regarded him unsmilingly. "I'll tell him it was an _accident_, an unfortunate case of friendly fire. Luckily for you, there's no one left alive who's going to contradict that. As for Trinny, she's always been independent of her father. In a sense, she showed me the way.

I didn't mention a _holy_ war though. Why'd you say that?"

Jericho had folded his arms in apparent exasperation. Now he gave a knowing smile. "You think I'm deaf? Or stupid? I've clocked the kind of shit you've been coming out with. _In my father's house are many fucking legions of death angels,_ and other assorted baloney. I heard nothing else while you were hanging up there. God save us from people who think they're the next messiah!"

Arta said, "I've really no idea what you're talking about. I never said any such thing while I was a prisoner."

"Oh, you're good, Miss Smarty-pants! You think I'm gonna believe that, and fall to the ground in holy awe. Yay, see how I'm possessed by the spirit without even knowing it! Bull-crap!"

Angrily Arta began, "I told you I haven't a clue …"

She stopped as a Raider came pounding up the elevator, and dashed across the metro concourse. Halting panting in front of them, his crested hair nodding, he said. "Warchief Jericho? Then as Katrina came up, "Warchief Trinny? We're under attack. Talon mercs have taken the upper levels of Farragut metro. We've had to fall back to the maintenance section. But they won't fucking give up. Klaus was barely holding them off when I left."

Katrina said, "Barely holding! That place was set up like a fortress, with all the traps and defensive strongpoints we could devise. And he's just hanging on! He shouldn't even have lost control of the upper station!"

The Raider bowed his head. "You don't understand. This isn't just a squad of three or even half-a-dozen. This is a mother-fucking army, like the Bethesda one, but better equipped. They've laser weapons, rocket launchers and fuck knows what else."

Arta said, "Burke. It can only be Burke."

Katrina asked, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because he uses Talons, I know he does. And he has enough wealth to hire lots of them if he wants. He wouldn't come this far into the Wastes without plenty of protection. Most of all, he knows this is the only way out that doesn't go farther into the heart of DC. He probably didn't even trust Walsh to bring me back safely.

He's here, and he's coming for me."

* * *

*Okay, first apologies for the absence of Nova in this chapter, even though I didn't exactly promise it. Reasons: usual lack of space and not being in the mood to write that kind of thing, which you have to be.

Some parts were quite upsetting to write, so if any details aren't true to life, it's because I didn't care to investigate too closely.

The title is loosely taken from Shakespeare's _Tempest: 'we are the stuff that dreams are made on'._

According to Wiki, Stealth Boys were US copies of the technology used in Chinese Stealth suits. But with Jericho's background (in this story) he would be more inclined to give credit to the original inventors.

_Dum-dum:_ borrowed from New Vegas, a derogatory term by the more 'sophisticated' kinds of mutant for the simpler, more numerous ones.

_The__ Master__ has__ commanded __it:_ not the original creator of all first-generation Supermutants, but merely one of the more powerful classes of mutant in Fallout 3. However the distinction would probably be lost on the average 'dum-dum', and likely over-awe it more effectively.

Chess might not seem a Raider kind of game, but one of the Sat-Com stations they inhabit has just such a set of pieces; amazing attention to detail by the designers.

Uncle Leo appears as a random Wasteland encounter, and will not fight unless severely provoked. He is one of the few mutants like Fawkes who recalls his 'change'. His link with Agatha (and Clover) is purely an invention.

Finally I hope this edit will do, considering the late commitments to friends, both expected and unexpected, which have hampered my efforts to bring this out by the weekend, and left me exhausted.*


	31. Artemesia

Ch 31 Artemesia

Nova let her tongue run lightly over the tautness of Lucy West's exposed nipples, slipping her hand below to feel for the warmth of her arousal, sensing her sexual excitement mounting towards its peak. But she held back from directly stimulating Lucy's most erogenous zone, merely brushing her fingers tantalisingly through the lush hair of her mound of Venus. She knew this would most likely bring the normally reticent young woman to the point of desperation, losing all her usual control as she became increasingly frantic for relief, and getting her ready for an unrestrained, earth-shaking climax. There was still a part of her that gained intense satisfaction from teasing Lucy in this way, confirming her dominance in and out of the bedroom.

This time however, Lucy responded in kind, playfully nuzzling Nova's navel, before altering position so that her head was between Nova's thighs, while allowing access to her own sensitive labia. Nova caught her breath as she felt the intoxicating pleasure of the tip of Lucy's tongue seeking out the wet velvet of her innermost lips. In response to this exquisite stimulation, Nova went to work placing gentle kisses around the tight bud of Lucy's womanhood. _Its like we're playing a duet, one leading and the other responding, to the accompaniment of a chorus of moans and sighs. _

Their breasts and navels slid together, as the delightful wriggling of their bodies increased. Lucy continued to industriously ply her tongue, and now Nova joined her by probing deeper with hers, unleashing thrillingly electric vibrations. _I'm so hot and wet and ready to come, and I can feel she is too!_ There was a final teasing pause before their tongues lashed one another into an explosion of pleasure, their bodies completely abandoned to ecstasy.

_Oh god, this is so heavenly! It's the first time we've come together like this, that we've been on the same level. Perhaps this is what I've been missing all these years, someone to make love to in a way that seems equal._

Still panting from the exertion and the violent orgasm she had undergone, Lucy gasped, "Nova, you're beautiful." Then she added, a little shyly, "And you have a beautiful pussy too. I love it."

For a moment Nova was surprised by the compliment from her usually more discreet partner, but then she smiled.

"Why thank you, Lucy. We're growing more and more alike in our thinking. I'd say your education is almost done."

* * *

"We've tried pouring oil down the shaft," Klaus said. "And igniting it with Molotovs. Damn near set the station on fire. Didn't work in the end. They grabbed extinguishers from somewhere and put it out. Since then we've been dropping grenades. It must be like bloody _bolognaise_ at the bottom, but they keep trying to come. Maybe they've got someone else setting their arses on fire down there. Mercs don't usually show the same guts as us. Now theirs are decorating the walls and floors."

"What about casualties on our side?" Katrina asked. From where she stood with the bearded Raider, a metal bridge spanned the void, leading across towards Jeffrey Bernard's room. Below the bottom of the shaft could be dimly seen, illuminated by torchlight alone. The machinery had fallen silent, the electric bulbs dark. The air was still and close, and there was a sinister smell of burnt flesh and petrol.

"We lost most in the first attack. Would've been more but for the traps covering our arses in the retreat. Since then Bones bought it from a missile fired up the shaft, but he's been the only one. Problem's gonna come when we run out of grenades, which ain't far off. Then they'll be swarming up here like monkeys, with only a few frag mines to stop 'em." He paused, became tensely alert. "Here we go again."

From behind Katrina, Arta peered down into the depths. Far below two black clad figures were scuttling between the twisted masses of wrecked machinery to reach the foot of the metal stairway. One paused to point a weapon upwards, emitting a red beam of light to melt part of a girder near Klaus's foot. Katrina's lieutenant fired back, and from the other end of the bridge another Deathseeker hurled a grenade towards the bottom of the shaft. After a delay, the sound of an explosion mingled with screams reverberated and was magnified in the enclosed space. The figures had slumped, one a short way up the staircase.

With the attack apparently over, Arta turned to Katrina. "What's your assessment of the tactical situation?"

She noticed some small signs of the Raider leader's appreciation that she'd been asked instead of Jericho: her chest puffing out and her eyes brightening. _And why not? I may have to rely on her for that kind of advice in future, not him._

Rather than giving an instant reply, Katrina spoke again to Klaus. "How many of them d'you think there are?"

He tugged the lobe of his one remaining ear doubtfully. "Hard to say. We've already killed around a dozen. But from the way they keep feeding in troops, I'd guess there must be a whole lot more of the fuckers."

Jericho put in, "If we're gonna make a stand, we ain't gonna find anywhere much better than this."

Katrina said, "True. But we don't know if standing is the best plan. They're trying to wear us down, which suggests they think they've got the numbers to do so. When they've figured we're running out of options, they'll throw in their reserves and their best weapons." With an upwards jerk of one side of her mouth, she added, "Classic Napoleonic strategy."

Jericho gave a concessionary nod. "It certainly sucks that we don't know their exact numbers."

Arta said to Katrina, "What d'you suggest we do then?"

Moving away from Klaus, and lowering her voice, Katrina said, "Retreat. Leave a minimum force here to hold off the pursuit as long as possible."

Standing next to her uncle, who was forced to stoop by the low ceiling, Clover chipped in, "Not a very Raider-like attitude. And retreat to where? Chevy Chase is swarming with mutants."

"That's the difficult bit. We'll have to get out the Bethesda end. But they must have been seriously weakened by the last battle. If they see we're fighting our way out rather than plundering, they might even let us go without putting up too much resistance. We ought to have enough strength to do that, barely."

Arta said, "That sounds like a plan, though I don't like leaving some of your people to die."

Katrina said, "Neither do I, but its sacrificing a few to save the majority. And maybe they'll have a slight chance of surviving. Is it agreed?" When there were nods from nearly everyone present, she turned back to Klaus. "Here are your orders …"

* * *

_They're obeying her without question, as though we're about to go on a fucking picnic!_ _Like the worst of the bad old days when most of them didn't give a shit whether they lived or died. _Jericho watched as the Deathseekers Katrina had chosen to accompany her prepared to move out, while those delegated to remain stood at their posts. There was almost no difference in their reactions. With the notable exception of Klaus, the mood was one of confidence, and even ebullience.

He joined Katrina at the head of the departing column. She glanced at him a trifle irritably. "You look like you've eaten something bad. The plan's not to your liking?"

"It ain't exactly the plan, more the way everyone looks like they're on an afternoon stroll."

"You noticed that? Don't worry; it shouldn't make them any less frosty when it comes to fighting. More like the opposite. See, most of them believe that with Arta with us, we can't lose."

"Just how'd they figure that one out?"

Katrina grinned. "Most of them aren't too savvy. They've seen what they think are signs and wonders. Arta driving off Bethesda with a flaming sword. Arta coming back from the dead carried by a Supermutant. And now there's all sorts of stories going round. The Angel of Death will strike down their enemies and lead them to victory. The Angel of Death will make sure that, if they die, they'll go to some kind of paradise where there's an endless supply of drugs and sexual partners. That kind of shit."

"And you're letting them swallow it?"

"Yeah, of course. You wanted me to learn from history. Religion's always been a good way to get people to die for the cause. Some armies made up of fanatics have been amazingly successful."

"As long as they've been able to take the casualties. Right now the numbers ain't on our side."

Katrina shrugged. "What's to lose when our backs are against the wall anyway? If we make it out of here, we ought to get some reinforcements. Then I've figured Arta can help us gain new recruits from amongst the Wastelanders. With a host of true believers on our side, who's gonna stop us?"

Jericho made a sour face. "The more I hear, the less I like it. Have you told Arta about this clever-dick notion of rounding up a legion of crazy crusaders?"

"She more or less suggested it. At least about recruiting people to our side anyway."

"Oh she did, did she? And suppose they find out she's not so invincible after all?"

Katrina gave a grim smile. "Well, we're about to see for ourselves whether that's true or not. If she gets us out of this one, I'll personally kiss her divine arse."

* * *

After the horrors of DC, Arta was beginning to find the Farrugut metro tunnels almost a familiar and comforting place. _Am I suddenly reverting to type? A Vault dweller seeking out the safety of the Underworld? Without the ghouls, of course._

Hanging back from the main body of hurrying Raiders, Clover said, "How are you feeling? You're doing very well to keep up considering all you've been through. Would you like Uncle Leo to help you at all?"

Craning her neck to talk directly to the hulking giant, who seemed to have posted himself as rear guard, Arta said, "No thank you, I can manage quite well for now. All the same, I very much appreciate you coming along, Leo. Are you sure you don't want some kind of gun for protection?"

Leo was carrying a huge board similar to the one the Chevy Chase mutant had used as a club. He shook his head.

"I abhor violence, although I understand that it's sometimes necessary, especially when embarking on a noble quest such as yours. However I'm hoping the mere sight of this formidable-looking weapon will dismay our enemies."

Clover said, "I hope so too, Uncle, but I'm afraid you may be forced to use it eventually. A Chinese assault rifle would be more effective, and is lighter than a minigun."

"But I have no skill with either of them. My mission has been one of peace up until now. If the time comes to fight, then fight I will, in my own way."

"If you say so, Uncle. We're very grateful for your help already." Aside to Arta, she added in a whisper, "We've become quite a motley crew, haven't we? Raiders, a slaver, and now a Supermutant. We just need a ghoul to complete our set of 'villains'."

Arta said, "And why not? All the peoples of the Wastes should be able to unite in the cause of restoring civilisation. If we can't treat those different from us with tolerance, there's little hope for our success."

Clover shuddered, "You could be right, but evidently Burke doesn't think so. He's bent on destroying all opposition."

They had reached the Friendship Heights Metro Station. Since the battle with Bethesda the most noticeable changes were the rows of Black Scorpion corpses impaled on stakes and hanging from chains. Glancing at them with disgust, Arta hoped they'd all been dead before becoming exhibits. She would have to speak to Katrina; it was hardly going to help her recruitment drive if the Deathseekers indulged in such grisly habits.

Before she could add any comments, Leo said in his sighing tones, "I hope you don't mind me asking you about something which has been troubling the thoughts of a pedantic scholar such as myself. Why did your parents name you _Artemesia_? Isn't that the name of a bitter flower or herb?"

Arta said, "That's correct. The name was given to me by my father after my mother died in childbirth. For him it represented the flowering of something precious out of sorrow and heartbreak. Sometimes it was hard for me to remember that my birthday was a time of mourning for him as well a celebration."

Leo gave a melancholy sigh. "Ah, is that indeed so? I can understand how the loss of a beloved wife would be as wormwood to the soul!"

Arta said, "Excuse me, but what did you just say? About _wormwood_?"

"Oh, forgive me, but I thought you would know. Wormwood is a common name for Artemesia and its derivatives, known for its bitter taste and included in such drinks as Absinthe. There's even a reference to it in the Bible, which I can't quite recall now …"

Interrupting him, Arta said, "Clover, give me that New Testament, right away!"

Clover exchanged a puzzled glance with Leo, before producing the leather volume from a side-pocket. Arta took it with trembling fingers. Remembering Manya reading in the soft evening light, she turned the pages to Revelation, chapter eight, maintaining a brisk walking pace with difficulty. In the illumination cast by her pipboy, she read the words aloud:

"_And there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the rivers, and upon the fountains of the waters. And the name of the star is called Wormwood … and many men died of the waters because they were made bitter."_

Two tears stood out in Arta's eyes She felt their salty taste as they trickled down her cheeks. Clover noticed, and put an arm on her shoulder in worried and amazed sympathy.

Softly the Vault woman said, _"No, it cannot be."_

Leo seemed oblivious to Arta's reaction and words. With a pedant's enthusiasm, he rumbled on, "Yes, I remember now. There was much theological speculation about the name and its meaning. The conventional religious one is that it refers to an important celestial being, a Prince of the Power of the Air. Then again others of a scientific bent suggested it might be a description of a disastrous cosmic event, such as a collision with an asteroid or comet. And those with a bent for prophecy even associated it with the Nuclear Apocalypse, with the obvious parallel of fallout and radiation polluting the …"

In a low voice, Arta said, "I was there, Leo."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When the bombs were dropping, I was there."

"Ha, I think you're confusing yourself with our ghoulish brothers. Some of them _were_ there, but …"

"When our ancestors first discovered the killing power of rock and bone, I was there."

"_My dear young lady!"_

"Wherever blood has been spilt, I was there."

Clover said brokenly, "Arta, _enough!_ That wasn't you. And even if it was, you're not responsible. You're just … you."

"_Not responsible? _I am the ultimate agency of destruction. And my name has shown me my destiny. How would my father have known? He wanted to purify, to heal, not to destroy."

Leo said, "If someone could please explain to me …"

Clover said, "Uncle it's difficult, but the gist of it is that Arta thinks her fate is to become some kind of …" for a moment words failed her, _"…destroying angel."_

Leo said bemused, "Like the angel that struck down the First Born of Egypt?"

"Yes … no! Look, I think maybe it's meant to happen in some way that accords with reality. Like a nuclear explosion, say."

Leo shook his head. "But I thought that was exactly what we were trying to prevent!"

"We are. And that's what I wanted to say to you, Arta. Whatever you think this thing is that you're going to do, you don't have to do it! Tell her, Uncle!"

Arta turned despairing eyes towards Leo, who said in as reassuring a tone as a Supermutant could manage, "Ah, yes … concerning Fate. As a student of philosophy, I must concede there's no definite proof that Freewill exists." Catching sight of Clover making discouraging gestures behind Arta's back, he continued hastily, "However without it our existence would be meaningless as a puppet's … and so it becomes a necessary condition for our reasoning at all. Ahem. I think that logic is sound … just about. Therefore no matter what cruel hand Fate may choose to deal us, we've always got the opportunity to play it as well or as poorly as we can. Take me, for example." Clover was now nodding and smiling, and with the air of one sailing into calmer waters, the Supermutant went on: "I'm supposed to be a big, dumb brute who enjoys stomping on humans. But instead, here I am debating the issues of existence with you. What makes you think _you're _any more prone to destiny than I am?"

Arta seemed momentarily baffled by Leo's chain of reasoning, and Clover said quietly and approvingly, _"Well done, _Uncle Leo."

"But …" the Vault woman's objection was lost, as a series of whispers passed back through the ranks of the Raiders '_We're getting close to the exit, keep it down'._

The chain gate was before them; the darkness beyond blacker than the dimly lit tunnel they crept along.

Jericho said, "No sense us all blundering up there; I'll go and scout the lie of the land."

Arta said, "And I'll go with you."

"No, let me," Clover's worried frown returned. "Arta, you shouldn't be risking yourself."

Katrina nodded but Jericho gave a disgusted growl. "What the hell … she ain't a baby, and she's got eyes as good as anyone here."

Arta said, "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

Clover watched her slender form stoop to follow Jericho, as they slipped noiselessly between the metal gates, and began to creep with infinite caution up the stairs. _Please, just keep believing._

The heavens were filled with a thick dusting of stars, their light cold and remote. Looking up to the southern sky, Arta sought to discern some meaning in their ancient patterns. _When they formed out of gas and galactic dust, was some part of me there? _As she ascended the steps backwards to cover the wall above the gate, more of the overarching roof sheltering the metro entrance became visible. The gaps in its panelling seemed to form they're own haphazard arrangements, as though designed thus by the whim of an artist of the apocalypse. Braziers flanked the shelter on either side, throwing light and shadow amongst the cluster of tables, benches and tent-like dwellings, and the dark figures moving amongst them.

Arta halted her movement, and convulsively gripped Jericho's arm. She could hear the sounds of the Raiders conversing in low tones.

"_Can't wait to fuck that little blonde with the pigtails."_

"_Sparrow, yeah, she's a hot bitch. When this bloody guard stint's over."_

"_Don't like this business at all. We shouldn't get involved with outsiders, whatever the Chief says."_

"_Too right; I'm betting we won't get shit out of it."_

"_Ain't that always the way. The bosses get first dibs on everything."_

Arta continued to hold herself still. It was dark on the stairs, and she was unlikely to be seen if she neither moved nor made a sound. She flinched as the bristles of Jericho's beard prickled against her ear.

"I'm gonna crawl to the top and eyeball what's to the north. Keep 'em covered meanwhile. If they take alarm shoot, then get back underground."

His voice was barely discernable. She nodded her understanding, raised her sniper rifle to cover one of the guards standing near the wall above the gate. Behind her she could hear the faintest slithering sound of Jericho's progress upwards.

* * *

Katrina chewed her lip apprehensively. They'd been gone a while. You couldn't hurry such things, but she was acutely aware of the risk of being caught from the rear. Klaus had never been the most reliable of her lieutenants. Cutting off his ear had only suppressed his natural tendency to insubordination, and he was less prone to the religious awe Arta had inspired in most of the rest of the tribe. His calculating side could surface when faced with impossible odds. He might try to run, or even surrender. The escape plan depended on him buying them some vital time.

She sighed with relief as she heard the faint patter of returning footsteps, then took in the grim looks on the faces of the two scouts.

"So what's up? You look like you're on a bad psycho comedown!"

Jericho shook his head. "It's a lot fucking worse than I figured. There's only a few Bethesda guards above and behind the stairs. That ain't no surprise; we can most likely take those down and get away. It's what's to our front that's gonna throw shit into the fan." He met Katrina's eyes directly. "Talon company mercs, a big force."

She was shocked, then incredulous. "Right slap bang in the middle of Bethesda territory? How many? And why haven't they attacked already?"

"I counted three campfires. And knowing them, they may have posted snipers in some building shells. You do the maths."

Arta took over the explanation. "As to why they haven't fought with Bethesda or invaded the metro, there was a clue in what we overheard the Raider guards saying. They've come to some agreement. In effect, Burke's bought Bethesda off."

Clover said, "That's hardly in the grand tradition of Raider bloody-mindedness."

Katrina gave her a wry glance. "A boast that sometimes isn't so proud in reality. Raiders have been prepared to make agreements when anyone's been bothered to offer them. You just have to give us enough drugs and weapons, and have the firepower to avoid being double-crossed. We're all hypocrites when it comes down to our vital interests."

Jericho nodded. "Damn right, though that can't be why the Talons ain't tried to pincer us. I don't think this lot have a hotline to the others in the metro. They're most likely following the last orders they got to guard the exit. Which means they're not gonna be expecting much in the way of trouble now Bethesda are out of the picture. That gives us at least the fucking ghost of a chance."

Arta added, "With luck, they may even get confused as to which Raiders are on their side, and shoot the wrong ones."

Clover said despondently, "Maybe, but Talons are a lot tougher than Raiders to get past. No offence, and all that …"

_She's right, of course. Our chances aren't good. The smart thing would be to cut a deal and hand Arta over. And that's exactly what I'd have done if … if it wasn't for a dream. A dream she's offered us of being more than what we are. More than a bunch of petty psychos murdering, torturing, pillaging, fucking and shooting up. Leaving aside the rights and wrongs, who'll remember us in a hundred years?_

_And if we die?_ Katrina smiled inwardly. Perhaps there would be no monument, unless those deaths meant something, and someone from the winning side was there to bear witness. When a small force of warriors had held a narrow pass against an army many times their size, choosing to fight to the end even when outflanked, did they envisage that a simple epigram commemorating their stand would ring down the ages?

_Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here, obedient to their law, we lie._

Despite the many differences, she could see the parallels between her tribe and the Spartans. Warriors so ferociously uncompromising that when envoys came to them demanding water and earth as a sign of submission they had been thrown into a deep well to find their own. An idealised version of what she would have liked the clan to become, which her father had somehow betrayed. Kilshandra, she now realised, had understood this instinctively. While Jericho had cursed their stupidity and indiscipline, she had recognised the strong bonds binding them to the Raider Way.

Maybe there was a chance for her to have her hour of glory, and still retain hope that someone would live to tell the tale.

She said, "Arta, give me your sword and helmet."

Arta stared at her. "Why?"

"Because I for one am not gonna let those bastards get what they came for. We'll break out as planned, and once they've followed thinking that you're still with us, you can escape. Chances are in the midst of all the distractions we're gonna create, they'll never catch sight of you." To Jericho she said, "And you can go with her. She'll need a sneaky old bastard like you with enough ordnance for a one-man army."

He spat. "I ain't gonna let you do this."

Arta said, "And neither am I."

"Why the hell not? We're already outnumbered and outgunned. We can all go down together and let this Burke character win, or just some of us can die while giving him a big 'fuck you'. I'm a Raider, and I'm damned if I'd rather cash in my chips trying for the second."

There was a mutter of agreement from amongst the ranks of the Deathseekers. Arta was about to speak again, when Clover interrupted her.

"Arta, she's right. It's the only way." Addressing Katrina: "You offered me the post of your lieutenant. I accept it."

Leo added, "Perhaps you may also accept the small assistance a Supermutant can provide."

Arta said horrified, "Clover, no!"

Clover took firm hold of Arta's hand, and then Jericho's, and tugged them aside from the others. Pulling them into a huddle, she spoke in a low intense voice.

"Listen to me, Arta, and you too, Jericho. There's no real alternative, and it's not as bad as you think. Katrina's not likely to get killed by the Talons if they think she's you; they must have the same orders as Walsh did. As for me, I have to stay with Uncle Leo, so that maybe there's a chance he can see Aunt Aggie again. And whatever other talents Supermutants possess, sneaking isn't one of them. So you see, if any good's gonna come out of this, that's how things have to be. I've gotta go with Katrina, and Jericho has to go with you.

Just accept it please, there's no time for arguments. Fortune's already cast the dice, and we have to roll with whatever the bitch has thrown."

* * *

_Night fighting can take on the quality of a nightmare, _Arta thought_. The cloak of darkness increases our sense of terror that the worst things are happening. Sounds come and brief flashes of illumination, without us knowing why and wherefore._

Crawling along with a guiding hand on the wire fence to her left, her real attention was given to the terrain beyond it, a rubble-strewn stretch of open ground in which the remains of half-buildings stood like isolated towers. Terrible things might be happening there, yet she could see nothing clearly. For some time now the harsh chatter of automatic fire had continued, intermingled with the crack of rifle shots and the dull detonations of grenades. Occasionally there would be a hoarse yell or scream, barked commands and warning cries, but the reasons for them were lost in darkness and confusion.

Ahead the fence turned a corner, and Jericho was using wire cutters to create a gap, though she was uncertain whether this was even necessary. Perhaps the task was a welcome distraction from wondering what fate might befall his daughter beneath the shroud of night.

The time before the breakout had been heartrending, and the practicalities involved in preparing for it had done little to make it less so. To improve the deception they had insisted on against all her protests, Katrina and Clover had changed clothes, the former receiving Arta's black combat armour, while giving Clover her chain mail-like bikini. The Raiders evidently saw the passing on of sword and armour to their leader as some kind of talisman, as though the mantle of the Angel of Death had been bestowed upon her.

For Arta there had been a bitter sweetness in being able to caress the soft skin that her lover's new outfit left bare, while at the same time feeling her vulnerability.

"You do understand, Arta, that I'm doing this because I love you, not just for Uncle Leo. I'd stay with you to the end if I thought that would give you a better chance of escape. Maybe it'll still all come right, and we'll meet again soon."

Arta hadn't been able to manage a reply through a throat tight with emotion, merely nodding and hugging Clover to herself. Knowing at the same time that Katrina and Jericho were similarly embracing, and that the moment of parting was close.

But she did not want to recall any more about it, the warm, intense kiss and the final clasp of hands, before Clover and Katrina had turned away. Small sounds accompanied the Raiders stealthily ascending the steps; orders were whispered. And then the suddenness with which Clover had given a last wave and vanished from sight, the Deathseekers following like a dark flood behind.

Leo had been left behind, waiting for the moment when contact with the enemy was established and surprise no longer a factor. As the first shots rang out, he had twisted his misshapen head to mutter, "May we meet in a better world."

Arta remembered those ambiguous words, as from the ground to her back a rising chorus of voices signalled a Raider charge. The deep booming note of a magnum could be heard, and the Supermutant's voice raised in anger.

"For truth and justice!"

Then Jericho was seizing her, to pull her through the gap he had created. But she resisted, looking back over her shoulder. In the gloom a trail of fire followed the arc of a burning sword. By the light of the flames enveloping the burning body it had ignited, Arta caught sight of Uncle Leo, brandishing the huge nailboard around his head like a quarterstaff, Clover crouched by his side with the Blackhawk raised, and Katrina standing with the _shishkebab _in one hand and an smg in the other, just visible between the black uniforms closing in on every side.

"I can't leave – I've got to go to them!"

She struggled with Jericho, who said urgently. "It's too late for that. They wouldn't want you to. Now we've gotta get the hell outa here while we still can."

A sweeping curtain of fire had descended to block her vision of her friends, the plume of flame from a jet of gasoline. There were multiple grenade explosions, screams and burning, twisting shapes amidst the inferno. Then the scene blurred as she allowed herself to be dragged away, feeling as though everything that meant anything to her was being left caught in the claws of the night. Crossing a freeway, they ascended a dark slope, picking up the remains of a roadway leading north. Behind them the rattle of gunfire rose to a climax, then started to die away, becoming ever more infrequent and distant, until eventually it ceased altogether.

* * *

Lucy West lay back naked and relaxed, shutting her eyes. Nova carefully brushed an errant lock of damp hair from her forehead, gently kissed her neck and right breast.

Letting out a long sigh, Lucy said, "I wish I'd known a long time ago how wonderful it could be … I mean to be with a woman like this."

Stroking her other breast, Nova said, with a throaty chuckle, "Don't knock something before you try it, isn't that right, hon?"

Lucy looked at her through half-closed eyes, and smiled. "Yes, I shouldn't have, though it wasn't quite that simple. I was probably already inclined but …" she rubbed her neck sleepily. "Are you up for a story … not a long one?"

Nova continued her sensuous rubbing, "Why not, hon, when we've got plenty of time for that and everything else?"

Lucy giggled. "Yes, though it's difficult to concentrate with you doing that." She turned over onto her belly, stretching her shoulders languorously. "When I was a child in Arefu, there was another girl who I used to play with. Her name was Tilly, and she was a real ragamuffin. She was the daughter of a trader too, a not very successful one whose husband had been killed. I didn't mind though; I loved Tilly for being dirty and delinquent, and for doing what she wanted. You see my mom always wanted me to be well behaved, and to do my best to stay clean and neat, despite the difficulties. She would even give me rad-x and rad-away so I could have a proper bath every month or so. I suppose playing with Tilly was rebelling against all that."

Nova had straddled Lucy's back, and was beginning to sensuously massage her shoulders. She said, "Yeah, I guess your mom wanted to make you into her little princess, when you just wanted to be a kid."

"Exactly. We often used to play a game where Tilly would pretend to be a Raider who'd captured me. That kinda fitted in with how we both were. I remember getting real excited when she'd pin me down and lie on top of me, but at the time I didn't realise why.

As we got older, and into our teens, the games got a little more serious and complicated. Sometimes she would even tie me up … and, well you know how your feelings can get confused at that age. On one occasion, I was supposed to have escaped, and we were both wrestling together. I remember feeling … _aroused … _in a way I hadn't before by the way our bodies were pressed so close together. My breasts and inner thighs were tingling, and I tried to push them even more firmly against hers. I wanted to … well, I didn't exactly know what I wanted to do. I just knew that I wanted the sensations to continue, to get stronger."

Nova continued with her massage, making it more erotic, sliding her own breasts against Lucy's back. She was enjoying the story, and found it quite a turn on.

"And did they?"

"Yes. It seemed like we'd stopped fighting, and were holding, almost caressing each other. I could feel myself getting wet between my thighs, and I was beginning to realise how much I wanted her to _touch _me there.

And then … and then." Lucy's head went down. "Suddenly she pushed me strongly but not violently away from her. I was so shocked. Then she said, in a voice that was matter of fact, rather than angry: 'Lucy, if you try that again, I'll call you a dyke, and leave you be.'

I'd heard the word before, and knew it was supposed to be something bad. I suddenly felt so ashamed. I told myself that I would make sure never to have those feelings again. After that I avoided Tilly, and kept close company with my brother Ian instead. He had his own demons to fight, and I felt he really needed me. Tilly's mom moved on to a different trading post, and I never saw her again."

Lucy sighed. Nova said nothing, becoming more tentative in her movements.

After a few moments of silence, Lucy said, "Did you know or guess about me?"

Nova said, "I don't know whether I did, unless it was feminine intuition. I just knew that I wanted you … badly."

Lucy said, "So the whole thing about whoring …"

"… Was a trick. I'm sorry I tricked you, hon. Or rather that I took advantage of the mess you were in."

"I suppose that's OK if everything works out in the end. But what _is _going to happen to me … to us, I should say?"

Nova gently kissed her on the nape of the neck. "Nothing bad, I hope. You can stay here with me, and help run the bar, and I won't make you do anything you don't want to." She laughed quietly. "As long as you want to cook and make love and live happily ever after."

* * *

Sunrise. The broken highway they followed showed like a line of gold to the north, the arches of the freeway bridge a constant towering presence on their left. Arta would have preferred to walk amongst the long shadows it threw westwards, to shelter from unfriendly eyes as much as from the heat beginning to strike upwards from the tarmac. But Jericho seemed fixated on the idea that someone might be tracking them, and insisted they remain on a surface less likely to leave an imprint. He kept to this principle until the track veered close to the high fence and towers marking the Wheaton Armoury, reluctantly conceding it would be safer to cut off a loop in the road by heading north towards a small hillock.

The temperatures were beginning to match the fierce pace they had maintained, so Arta was grateful when Jericho decided to halt and survey the lie of the land from a vantage point beneath two huge signboards. One displayed a picture of a powered-armoured figure offering a hand to a prostrate man in a tall hat which Arta now knew was Uncle Sam, representative of a past America it appeared only deluded fantasists like Nathan still cared about.

In between grateful sips of Walsh's purified water, Arta found she was able to take in a surprisingly wide arc of view. From the south, the way they had come through the outskirts of DC, to the east towards the heights of Canterbury Commons, and to the west where Minefield and the triple funnels of the power station could distantly be seen. Nowhere was there any sign of a pursuit. Above all her gaze was drawn northwards to the ruin that had once been the Temple of the Union. The roadway leading towards it shimmered in the heat, but the memories evoked sent a chill through her blood.

Carefully returning the empty water capsule to her pack, she asked, "Isn't it about time we left off following the road? We must be almost due east of Scrapyard by now."

Scrapyard was the agreed rendezvous, assuming everyone got out alive. Apart from being a good place for temporary concealment, it was close to Agatha's house without being too close. Clover hadn't been certain enough of their allies to risk revealing the location of the only real home she'd ever known.

"A little further yet. Much better if we make a big circle round it first. To fool anyone following as to where we're heading and give us a chance to recce the place Then there's that pair of bad brothers to consider."

He pointed towards a rocky hillside around half a kilometre to the west. Two huge black shapes were skirting the foot of the slope, one nosing the ground, the other with its head raised to catch the upper scent. Arta recalled how easily just one of these mutant bears had ripped Billy Creel apart, and shuddered. Nevertheless her rational side was prompting her to take issue with the ex-Raider's strategy.

"I'm sure this is by far the best side to approach Scrapyard from. If there's any serious opposition there, we've got more chance to spot them from a position overlooking it. And wouldn't it be better to shoot the Yao Guai while we know where they are, and have the range on them?"

"We could most likely take down one of the buggers before it got too close. I ain't at all sure about two, unless our position's real good." Jericho rubbed his beard. "Sometimes leaving be's the best thing to do with the mutant wildlife. They've often got more Wasteland savvy than humans, and can give a clue about danger, or even help attack other enemies."

Reluctant as she was to once again depend on Jericho's Wasteland lore, Arta had to acknowledge it's wisdom, and was preparing to descend the slope to the north, when she noticed the Yao Guai had both lifted their heads and were trotting purposefully in the same compass direction. It seemed like a sign.

"See now the way's clear west," she said triumphantly.

"Maybe." Jericho looked dubious. "But we'd best keep our eyes peeled."

"What about that large house in front of the hillside? Couldn't we rest there for a while?"

"Nar, if we're gonna go, let's make tracks fast while the goings good."

As they set off, Arta tried to divide her attention between the Armoury to the south, and the boarded up windows of the old farm building. She caught sight of the movement of guards within the Wheaton compound, but there was no clue as to whether the wooden structure closer at hand was inhabited. It was solidly built, with a high, sloping roof blackened with age, and a heavy-looking door that remained firmly closed.

The hillside was strewn with enough boulders to conceal them from standing out against the skyline, and once over the crest of the slope, still more rocky outcroppings screened their view of Scrapyard. It was upon one of these that a single Raider sentry was standing with his back to them, looking westward over the junk heap.

Without pausing for discussion, Jericho drew a combat knife, and began to rapidly cross the open space between, leaving Arta to use her own initiative and draw a bead on the Raider's head with her sniper rifle, lest he should turn around. Jericho's progress remained unobserved, and when he was approximately ten feet from his target he stopped, drew back the dagger level with his head, and sent it spinning. The blade buried itself in the back of the Raider's neck, and he fell with a choked cry.

Arta was already racing forward to join Jericho, determined to use her recent experience to show him the best means of reconnoitring the area. Together they crept towards the edge of the eastern wall she had descended with Clover.

There she stopped astonished. Scrapyard was alive with movement. Raiders were everywhere amongst the rows of battered vehicles, some unpacking crates of ammunition and medical supplies, or stripping and assembling weapons with a well-cared for, high quality shine, while still others gathered around camp fires to carouse, talk and squabble. The vibrantly colourful scene seethed with all the activities of a huge tribal gathering. Crests of hair nodded, the sunlight gleamed from half-naked painted and oiled bodies.

Before she was able to fully take in the sights or their implications, a shout went up. Evidently the guard had been missed or they'd been spotted. Like a nest of ants disturbed, Raiders were readying weapons, and streaming towards the gaps in the fence.

Jericho snapped urgently, "C'mon for fuck's sake, run!"

They sprinted back towards the hillside, clambering down the rocks more quickly than they had ascended. The pursuit was still far behind and out of sight. Arta was about to run into the open, but Jericho stopped her.

"No! They'll easily spot us from the cliff tops. Stay in that cleft of the rock. I've got an idea."

He took out a grenade and sent it bowling towards the farm building, then ducked back alongside Arta.

"Now stay quiet, and don't move."

Arta was barely able to restrain her impulse to flee. If the Raiders descended the cliffs, they could hardly fail to find their prey. Jericho was asking her to trust her life to a plan she didn't even comprehend.

Following the explosion, there was the sound of a door banging open, then voices.

"What the hell was that?"

"Nobody in sight."

Then a woman's voice. "Must be someone in the rocks above. Check it."

Arta held her breath as she heard the crunch of footsteps nearby. But they were heading for the easier path up the slope. Almost immediately there was a burst of firing and shouts.

"Raiders!"

"Prepare to die, unrighteous scum!"

"Clean the filth from the land!"

The volume of shots doubled and redoubled, eventually reaching all the intensity of a major gun battle, though Arta was unable to see anything of the participants from her position.

Jericho tapped her on the shoulder. "Right, let's go. Take it easy, and don't draw any weapons."

They began to cautiously skirt the cliffs, aware that the fighting was raging above and around them. In the end there was no choice but to edge into the open, allowing Arta to witness what was happening behind them.

Crouching in the doorway of the high-roofed building, and behind barrels and other pieces of farm equipment providing cover, were two men and two women, armed with rifles and clad in high-collared knee-length earth-brown dusters. They were laying down a storm of fire to cover three more similarly attired and equipped fighters who were moving in military fashion from boulder to boulder up the cliffs. One of the advancing group was a woman wearing a broad Stetson, and Arta was immediately reminded of Sheriff Simms.

The combat effectiveness and sheer aggression of the newcomers was remarkable. More and more Raiders were coming into view around both sides of the hilltop, only to be shot down almost as soon as they arrived. The long-coated fighters for the most part deployed nothing more than assault and hunting rifles, but with a degree of accuracy that was deadly.

Jericho gave a grunt of satisfaction. "Now's our chance. Watch out for anyone trying to snipe us." He began a backwards and side ways scuttle across what might once have been a field of standing crops surrounding the farm building but was now simply hard baked clayey soil enclosed by broken fences.

Arta muttered, "I think we've been noticed." One of defenders of the ranch, a woman with a short ponytail, was sheltering by a corner of the building and tracking them with her weapon.

Jericho said, "Fire some shots at the Raiders. Don't worry about hitting 'em, just let her know whose side we're on."

Arta unslung her rifle and squeezed off two shots, actually striking a Raider's broad chest and dropping him to the ground. The woman gave a wave which seemed to denote approval, and turned away.

Jericho chuckled. "Great, we're clear to go. Reckon Sonora Cruz can cover our backs for now. Maybe with a little extra help."

Two shaggy black shapes were racing up the slope to fling themselves on the Raiders with terrifying roars.

Arta said doubtfully, "The Yao Guai could turn on them as well."

"Unless they happen to be their pets. I've seen Guai brought up tame from cubs. I wouldn't put it past Regulators to pull a trick like that. Anyway let's not stay to find out."

They had crossed the archaic boundary of the farm, and were well on their way to the cover of the freeway pylons, far enough from the battle for Arta to voice the questions she was bursting with.

"These Regulators, who are they? And who's Sonora Cruz?

Jericho sucked his teeth with deliberation. "Let's see. If there's a bunch of dumb-arse vigilantes more self-righteous, fanatical, and simply plain crazier than the Brotherhood of Steel, we just ran across them. Sonora Cruz is their so-called Chief Marshal. She may dress cowgirl style, but her crack's as tight as her butt-hole, so I doubt you'd get much of a ride."

Flushing slightly, Arta asked, "What do they do, and how d'you know so much about them?"

"Well Simms is supposed to be part of their crowd, though he's got a mite more sense. What they do is hunt down bad-arse villains; like yours truly before he got his deputy's badge. And as you saw, they know how to handle their guns."

Arta said, "So that's why you avoided them. But they could've helped us, couldn't they?" Then, falteringly: "Oh … oh, I see."

"Yeah … _now _you see. If you thought that bitch Reddin was trigger-happy, you should try these _hombres_. Just picture them happening on a bunch of Raiders in company with a Supermutant. Not a pretty thought. Before you start drawing up your plans for grand alliances, you gotta take account of die-hard crusaders like these."

Arta decided not to rise to the bait. "If we're gonna achieve anything, we need to get back together with Clover, Katrina and the rest. How the hell can we do that now?"

They paused to shelter in the shade of the overpass. Jericho scratched his head. "It's damn tricky, ain't it? Somehow I don't see Sonora's crew venturing into the scorpion pit we came across. They ain't _that _crazy, and neither am I."

Arta said, "I thought Bethesda were supposed to have taken heavy losses in the battle."

"They did. You might've clocked there was more than one Raider clan hanging around. And they were porting a helluva lot of new gear. Put two and two together …" Jericho punched his hand with his fist. "Burke bribes Bethesda with guns and drugs. Bethesda need reinforcements so they call on lesser clans to join 'em. And pay 'em with said supplies."

Arta said thoughtfully. "You could be right, in which case Burke is inadvertently uniting the tribes."

"Or maybe it's deliberate. If you're searching for someone across the Wastes, Raiders aren't the worst bet. They may not fight as well as Talons, but there's plenty of damn good trackers among 'em."

Arta shook her head. "But they _haven't _tracked us, have they? And why would they even bother?"

"For a reward maybe. Or to put the Angel of Death in the ground. Before we figure what to do, lets take another gander from that small mound."

They climbed the rise to beneath the signboards. Arta noticed that the other was an advertisement for Galaxy News Radio, now permanently off-air as one of the more unfortunate consequences of her Wasteland odyssey. But the image of the tower broadcasting its signal gave her an idea.

She said, "If Clover and Leo can't get into Scrapyard, they'll probably make for Agatha's house, wouldn't you say?"

"Sure, but heading that way don't seem too healthy right now."

"Well no. However I didn't mention that Agatha has a radio mast next to her house. She says it's able to transmit all over the Wastes."

"So what?"

"So it should be able to pick up a signal like the GNR one did."

"And who's gonna send it?"

"We are. From one of those masts." Arta pointed east and northeast to two structures nestling amongst the hills. "Provided they work, of course."

"I remember when I was a kid Lei Peng picked up a signal from somewhere around there. A distress call from some family that died in the war. But if we're gonna do that, we'd better head north right away." Jericho's voice had a peculiar strained quality.

"Why? The mast to the east is closer."

"Take a lookee that way."

Arta followed the direction of his pointing finger with her gaze. The perspective narrowed to the right as the line of freeways pylons led southwards like the columns of an ancient temple towards the far off obelisk of the Washington monument, bathed in sunshine. In between the barren Wastes undulated like desert dunes, and on the crests of them Arta observed little ripples of movement, spreading across the face of the land as though it had come to life. Unlike ripples on a pool, moving concentrically outwards, these seemed focused inwards on only one target.

She said, "So many of them?"

"Yeah, too fucking many to fight anyways. They've most likely picked up our trail where we left the road, so we need to throw 'em off the scent. Going north looks about the only way to do that."

_North it is then. But it's the way the hunters are driving us, further from our friends, not the way we would choose to go._

* * *

"I'm picking up a signal, frequency 3930."

The words conveyed directly to Arta's ear were charged with a quiet desperation, an urgent pleading, the voice of someone whose only remaining option was to call for help. She activated the speaker on her pipboy. Amidst the barren foothills of the Wastes the sound took on a sad poignancy, like the feeble moaning of a ghost.

"_If anyone can hear, this is Bob Anderstein. My family and I have taken refuge in a drainage chamber not far from the relay tower broadcasting this signal. My little boy is sick and needs medical assistance. Please help if you can. We're listening for your response. If anyone can hear …"_

Jericho nodded. "Yeah, it's the same repeating message me and Lei Peng heard all those years ago."

Arta said in a hushed tone, "They called for help that never came."

"Very likely, the signal's probably centuries old. We never looked for the chamber, but it might prove a useful bolthole, especially if we can find the transmitter."

They hadn't used the road leading to the old Union building; Jericho had said it was too exposed to observation. Instead they'd continued under the freeway arches, eventually reaching a broken intersection and another ground level roadway going north. They'd been able to follow it, with a few interruptions, until they were almost due west of the signal tower.

By this time Arta's arms and legs were aching, her heart labouring, her breath ragged, sweat clinging to every pore beneath the lighter leather armour she'd taken from Clover. The rigours her body and mind had undergone in the last twenty-four hours had brought her close to a state of complete mental and physical exhaustion. She'd only been able to keep going by fixating on the idea that by reaching their current goal her ordeal would be over, at least temporarily.

An earlier plea to rest at an isolated diner had met with a blank refusal from Jericho. "It's a Raider kind of place. We're more likely to lose our lunch there than find any." Instead he'd allowed a short halt for her to recover a little, then continued up the rising ground, giving the diner a wide berth. The tower was close now, looming above the rocks surrounding the summit. Arta stopped to catch her breath, a comforting image in her mind of sheltering somewhere safe and underground.

"How're we gonna find the transmission source?"

"Zigzagging until it becomes clearer ought to work. We know it's in a drain, so that's a big fucking clue. It'll be lower down than the relay tower."

"Good because if I have to climb much more … wait a minute!" Arta stared at the figures flickering across her pip-boy screen. "There's another signal, at a different frequency."

"Let's hear it."

The new voice coming from the speaker was female and confident. "Talon Platoon Twenty Four calling Field HQ. Priority Red."

A pause and static was followed by a male voice with a deeper register. "Platoon Twenty Four, this is Field HQ acknowledging. What's your status?"

"Our reconnaissance position near Chaste Acres Farm reports a possible sighting of one of the main targets. We are moving to surround and engage."

Another pause, then the deep voice again. "Negative Platoon Twenty Four. Maintain contact but do not engage unless the target does. You are authorised to use non-lethal force only. Stand by for further orders."

"Roger HQ, standing by."

Interrupting the exchange, Jericho said brusquely. "We have to get out of here fast. It may be us they've spotted."

"But the chamber …"

"We can't risk looking. That might be where they're transmitting from. C'mon let's go down again quickly."

_But I'm so tired! _Arta wanted to say, knowing it would be no use. Jericho gripped her arm, almost dragging her downhill. Unforgiving Wasteland rocks crunched beneath her feet, dislodged by the violent speed of their passage.

The ruined diner was below them and to the left, it's roof intact.

"You said …"

"I know what I said. It's the only fucking cover nearby … oh, holy shit!"

Leather-clad figures were emerging from the back of the building.

"And I was right. C'mon, run!"

Their flight was still downhill and headlong, bearing to the right away from the diner, the shouts and the shots. While it remained so Arta was able to maintain a run, adrenalin racing through her body as bullets whizzed past her head. But as they descended into a gravelly dip and began to struggle up the other side, she could feel the whole weight of her fatigue descending upon her.

"I … I can't run much further!"

She heard a clunk as Jericho dropped a frag mine behind them. "You've got to keep going. We can't fight here in the open. Look right."

Arta did so, and was horrified to see a squad of Talon mercenaries keeping pace with them not two hundred yards on their flank.

"No … not them as well!"

"Yeah, looks like being one heck of a day, don't it?"

They were back on the level roadway. Not far ahead was the large orange mass of a juggernaut, lying across the asphalt as though it had jack-knifed.

Jericho let fall another mine. "C'mon, let's make it to that vehicle at least. Sprint!"

There was an explosion and screams in the hollow behind them. Urged on by hope, fear and a swallow of buffout, Arta forced her legs to keep running. Once the bulk of the truck was behind them, Jericho put his back against the cabin, thrust his Chinese assault rifle into Arta's arms, and plucked a grenade from his belt.

"Lay down some fire towards those bastards."

Throwing caution to the winds despite her unfamiliarity with the weapon, Arta set it to full auto, and aimed over the lower part of the tow truck where it attached to the trailer. When she pulled the trigger, the assault rifle bucked like a wild horse. Barely controlling the recoil, she sprayed the entire clip with the result that most of the pursuing figures fell prone or crouched low to avoid the hail of bullets.

Ejecting the magazine and slapping in another, she gasped painfully, "What now?"

Jericho tossed a grenade high over the juggernaut, followed by another, and was rewarded by warning shouts. "We've gotta move on. We can't hold 'em here more than a minute or two tops."

Arta looked round wildly for somewhere to escape to. Nearby a red rocket fuel station was fenced inside a rocky dale, and a placid brahmin stood next to a muffled figure in a wide brimmed hat. Beyond that she could see the ever-present freeway bridge and the distant tops of buildings

"A settlement! We can find somewhere to hide there!"

"No we fucking well can't! No one goes in there and lives except the Deathclaws swarming all over the place. That's Old Olney: the one place in the Wasteland more dangerous than DC. Even the damn Supermutants avoid it."

Arta fired another clip on full auto, then tossed the empty gun to Jericho. "Then it's the one place they may not follow. Let's go!"

"What … are you crazy …?"

The Vault woman was already squeezing between the rocks and the fence surrounding the gas station. "We just need to get close enough so they give up."

"That's gonna be too close; those fucking nightmares have eyes like hawks and run like the wind … ah, Jesus … will you fucking wait?"

As they passed, the trader called out laconically, "Best Wasteland products sold here, fresh from my own private hell-hole!"

Over her shoulder Arta shouted, "Another time! Tell them we went the other way."

"Tell who? Hey, watch out for the Deathclaws!" The trader pulled her hat down over her brows and grumbled. "Why the hell does no one ever stop out here?"

Once out of the dale, the clay-brown walls of the settlement seemed suddenly, frighteningly close. Frantically scanning the area for any sign of movement, Arta could at first see nothing but an antique clock tower and deserted, silent streets. Then she noticed something shift against the background of the buildings, almost identical in colour. A reptilian shape, pacing with ominous intent, its long spiked tail waving behind it.

"Oh god …"

Jericho was looking in the same direction. "See, I told you it'd be no use. Lucky it wasn't looking this way. Let's get a fucking move on before it does."

Behind them they heard the trader's voiced raised in anger. "Hey, get out of my place, you no-good cock-suckers!"

"Hurry! They're right behind us!"

"Where? I can't go much further."

Jericho pointed north. "Looks like the freeway might be climbable over there. Being up above them might give us the tactical edge."

And Arta looking saw that from the torn edge of the interstate an unbroken arc curved downwards, as though a bridge had been thrown down from heaven for them to ascend. She felt her fatigue fall away from her.

"Yes … yes, that's the place for us to go."

The last dash was made at a pace that should have been killing, but Arta did not feel it. She was overcome with a sense that this was the right thing to do, that at last they were heading to somewhere that would prove a refuge. She was only half aware of the Raiders firing from behind her, or the fierce calls of the Talons as they closed in from the right, running almost in parallel at her flank, truncheons raised. Her eyes were fixed on the end of the roadway, descending rainbow-like to within yards of a steaming, limpid pool. It was so close now. She hardly noticed Jericho's grunt of alarm, or the peculiar vibrating pulse through the air which struck down one of the nearby mercenaries, or the panicked yelling spreading amongst them: _"Mirelurks! The Mirelurk King!" _Her foot was on the firm surface of the bridge, as a huge shape rushed past her, water dripping from its shell, and butted violently into the front rank of her pursuers.

It was hard to climb. The span had partly collapsed and was arcing at a steeper angle than normal. But she did not care. It was taking her away from earthly concerns, up into a skyward region where the air was clear and there were clouds and light and freedom. Tumult and peace, the types and symbols of eternity, of first and last and without end.

And then, quite unexpectedly, the bridge ended.

* * *

Burke contemplated the improvised chessboard. Picking up the energy cell which represented the Rook piece, he moved it to the seventh rank.

"Check." He gestured to the begrimed and bloody Raider sitting opposite him. "Your move."

Sweating, the man raised a hand to where his ear would've been, had it not been cut off. He shook his head in bewilderment.

"You heard Mr. Burke!" The hulking Talon mercenary jammed his submachine gun against the Raider's intact ear. "Make a fucking move!"

Desperately the Raider moved his King to the back rank.

Burke sighed and moved his Queen, a garden gnome, level with the Raider's King. "Checkmate. A rather easy win against poor resistance. Speed chess is clearly not your forte. Neither is making hopeless last stands. Now … " Burke leaned forward towards his shaking opponent, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose at the smell. "I will give you one final opportunity to tell me where your 'Angel of Death' has gone."

Stammering with fear, the man said, "I … I already said, they never told me shit about where they were g … going. Only to hold my position up till the last moment."

"You know," Burke spoke in an almost kindly tone "I'm beginning to believe you." To the Talon, he said, "Take him away and kill him, painfully but quickly. He's already wasted enough of our time."

As the Raider was dragged away protesting, Burke lit a cigar, and contemplated the board. Allowing one's opponent to walk into a trap was not a satisfactory way to win. An element of grand strategy should be involved, and his current adversary had been ingenious enough to avoid a simple defeat. That was as it should be.

"Mr. Burke, Sir!" Burke turned as his field commander Weinstein approached. Burke could tell the man was extremely pleased about something.

"Well, what is it?" He inhaled the fine flavour of the cigar smoke with relish.

"I've just received a report from one of our outside platoons. They've captured the Angel of Death!"

* * *

_Go tell the Spartans: _not of course Master Chief's bunch, but hoplites of the ancient Greek city state. Forbidden by law to send their whole army during a festival period, just 300 Spartans (with several thousand other Greeks) held the narrow pass of Thermopylae against a Persian army variously estimated at 100 thousand to over a million. After the Persian Immortals had outflanked them by treachery, the Spartans chose to fight to the death. As seen most recently in the film _300_: fun if not very historically accurate.

I know there's been some scepticism about the behaviour of Raider groups in this story. This might be a good time to say that playing _Fallout New Vegas_ has made me feel justified in my approach. In that game you can see several degrees and stages of Raider/Tribal evolution. The still barbaric Fiends, who are nevertheless prepared to trade drugs, the more honourable Great Khans, the brutal but highly disciplined Legion and the sophisticated but amoral Vegas Families. So perhaps Raiders can change their spots, albeit slowly.

I was amused to note that Regulator HQ is virtually within shouting distance of the Raider outpost at Wheaton. Maybe they prefer to take on the bad guys one at a time.

There are hardly any female Talon mercs. I guess they're supposed to be sexist evil people.

_Tumult and peace: _So far Arta's appreciation of poetry seems to extend only to Shelley and Beatrice the Vault poet. But from somewhere she's picked up fragments of Wordsworth's _Prelude._

Explaining the long hiatus between chapters would take an appropriately long time. Christmas, of course, partly figured. Also the difficulties of splitting up Arta's party and bringing her to a very precise spot in the Wasteland which she wouldn't otherwise think of visiting. It may be tempting Fate, but I'm now hoping to return to a more normal update schedule.


	32. Queen's Gambit

Ch 32 Queen's Gambit

Second Lieutenant Frederick Sneider contemplated his bound and helpless captive with satisfaction. After a difficult day in which he'd been far closer to death than was comfortable even for a Talon shock trooper, things were finally coming right. If all went to plan, he was on the cusp of obtaining a promotion and a commendation, and perhaps even reassignment to a platoon less constantly in the firing line.

His proximity to obtaining this highly desired goal made him ultra-cautious, and he signalled to the point man of his depleted squad to scout beyond the next block.

"They should be waiting for us near the Metro entrance. Make sure you check for their signal."

The trooper nodded, and slipped away. Sneider went back to examining the woman. Her armour moulded tightly to her body curves, which were generous and shapely. Despite his strict orders to the contrary, he wanted to make sure she'd have something to remember him by. It wasn't as though anyone was likely to complain to his superiors.

Her arms and legs were manacled, and she was additionally trussed to a kind of travois they were using to drag her. A precaution made necessary by the deadly way she'd employed her hands and feet in combat. In her present state she was completely helpless to resist anything he could do to her.

Reaching down, he took hold of her left breast and squeezed hard. He repeated the same procedure with the right breast. Then for good measure, he groped between her thighs.

"How'd d'you like that, you little hell-cat?" he sniggered.

He was satisfied to hear the gagging sound she made in response. From behind the transparent visor of her helmet, her blue eyes glared back at him in outrage. He'd expected to have to forcibly stifle her curses, but strangely she'd maintained an icy silence. The only time she'd been provoked into an extremely violent reaction since her capture was when they'd endeavoured to remove her helmet. In the end, worried that she might be injured in the process of wrenching it off, he'd allowed her to keep it on.

_Nothing's gonna stop me collecting that bounty, _he thought. _Or at least the lion's share. _ In a way, he had the woman to thank for that. Had she not killed most of his platoon, he wouldn't be its only surviving officer.

It had seemed such a huge stroke of fortune when they'd caught sight of the flaming sword, leading them on like a beacon. And then to find its wielder completely alone. That was before her weapon had cut and burned them as they rushed in on all sides. Even after she'd been stunned and disarmed, she'd killed two of his comrades _with her bare hands. _She was certainly worthy of the title bestowed on her.

_I suppose I was just lucky, unlike the others._

His train of thought was interrupted by the return of the scout, reporting all was well.

The Talon squad emerged from the shade of the buildings and began to cross the sun-baked open ground leading to the metro, a trail of dust marking the progress of the sled they dragged. Ahead two lines of black uniformed mercenaries formed a human corridor leading towards a lone man sitting on a folding chair. He wore a faded white suit and a hat creased lengthways down the crown, pinched at the front. Like his clothes, his glasses looked old-fashioned, and hid the colour of his eyes.

Sneider felt the beginning of apprehension. The way the man sat so confidently on his chair, leaning forward slightly with one hand on his hip, was subtly intimidating. Perhaps there was an unconscious echo of the approach of a lowly subject to his monarch, soliciting some favour or hoping to avoid censure or punishment. Sneider tried to remind himself he was here to claim his justly deserved reward. He must rise to the occasion.

He halted and saluted smartly. Then with a dramatic gesture towards the travois, he said, "Sir, I bring you … the Angel of Death!"

The man rose and walked forward to look down at the bound figure.

In a cold voice, he barked, "Get her up on her feet!"

Sneider began, "Sir, may I suggest …" His voice faded as he encountered the eyes behind the highly polished glasses. It was a predatory gaze that made him feel all too expendable.

Hastily he turned to his men. "Do as he says, but leave her hands and legs tied."

In order to follow his orders, they were obliged to remove the cocoon-like ropes binding her to the sled, then haul her up and hold her supported between them. Sneider noted that she showed no obvious sign of fear, and even smiled in a taunting fashion.

The man in the white suit stood directly in front of her. Were it not for the visor, she could've easily spat in his face.

"Why didn't you remove her helmet, Lieutenant?"

The question caught Sneider by surprise. "It … it didn't seem necessary, Sir, and …"

"Take it off now."

Sneider nervously complied. This time the woman made no resistance. As the helmet was pulled over her head, her hair spilled out in waves.

Sneider gasped.

In an even icier tone, the man enquired, "Are you telling me this is the Angel of Death, Lieutenant? You were given a precise description. What colour should her hair be?"

Sneider's tongue seemed to be stuck in his throat, and a wave of cold flooded through his entrails. He stared horrified at the now grinning woman, and managed to force out the words.

"B … but the sword, Sir, and the armour … it was a n … natural assumption, Sir."

"And it's also a natural assumption that you, Lieutenant, are an incompetent who deserves an exemplary punishment." The man signalled in an offhand fashion. "Hang him from the nearest lamppost."

As he was seized by his former comrades, Sneider's whole body was suffused with such terror that he could do nothing other shriek out the words so often used by his own victims, and which he had invariably laughed at.

"_No, no, please … have mercy!"_

The man in the white suit had already turned his back on him. Before he was dragged brutally away, Sneider heard him speak one last time.

"Well, well, my dear, you and I are going to have so many interesting things to talk about."

* * *

"We're trapped, aren't we?"

Jericho looked around him, making sure to keep his head as low above the parapet as possible.

"A lake full of Mirelurks on one side, a burg full of Deathclaws on the other, Raiders and Talons in front of us and a drop to certain death behind us; yes, I'd say 'trapped' sums that up nicely."

"Perhaps it's not certain death," Arta mused. "I reckon I could make a leap down to the top of the next pillar."

"Sure, maybe you could, but then what? The pillar's lower down than the next section of the freeway, and there's bugger all room for a run-up. If we got stuck there, our arses would really be fucked."

"No, you're right." Arta twisted her hair in frustration. "If only we had a rope, a plank, anything long enough!"

"Yeah, and if only a fucking mother-ship would come down and beam us the hell out of here, we could look forward to a new life on Planet Zog. When Leo collected our shit from his mutie friends, rope was way down the list behind weapons and ammo." With a sardonic grin, he added, "Unless I try sticking my cock out for you to cross on."

"That might work better than your stand-up routine."

"Hey, why so glum? Looked at the other way round, there's only one way up. That's in our favour if we have to defend ourselves."

"Sure, and if they wait for us to starve or die of thirst?"

"Then we're totally screwed."

_This is all wrong, _Arta thought. _I was hoping to escape, and instead I'm stuck here. _She thought longingly of Clover. _She should be here with me, and Jericho with Katrina. Both of us living or dying alongside the person we love most. Why did I allow things to happen differently? Logic be damned!_

Yet despite their present difficulties she could see that her mysterious intuition had been correct up to a point. Taking refuge on the bridge had almost certainly been the only way to avoid immediate capture. They had escaped to a defensible position, while their pursuers had run straight into some Mirelurk Hunters and a Mirelurk King, with its strange air-rippling death ray.

Unfortunately only about half of the Talons had been killed, and the rest had retired along with the Raiders to take cover behind the slopes around the Red Rocket station. Thanks to this combination of human and mutant enemies, their long-term situation appeared no better. It was like a chess problem where every variation led to checkmate.

Arta joined Jericho in moodily but cautiously surveying their surroundings. From near overhead the sun shone directly downwards, making the surface of the small lake sparkle as though it were the home of nereids and water sprites in a fairytale. The rather more sinister reality was shown by the shadows beneath the water, and the ripples which radiated away from the darker shells of the powerful Mirelurk Hunters as they surfaced. Some could be seen moving along the shoreline using the peculiar tiptoeing style of ambulation they adopted when not aroused. The Mirelurk King stood in the shallows on a rocky shelf, sometimes raising his pincered arms as if presiding over the activities of its subjects. Its more human-like domed head and large eyes were conspicuously different from the hard crab-like shell atop the Hunters' bodies.

As though to clarify Arta's unspoken thoughts, Jericho commented: "If you're wondering about the chances of getting past those, I'd say pretty fucking poor. Sniping 'em from up here's gonna be damn tricky because their only vulnerable spot, the face, ain't at a good angle. And I dunno what's the range of that death ray. We might try dropping grenades, but the timing's difficult from this far up. Then it's hard to hit 'em or even spot 'em below the surface. Even if we could be certain the Lurks were all dead, those fuckers out there are gonna know exactly the way we're gonna run. And … " he shrugged resignedly. "Run to where exactly?"

_He's right once again. To have any realistic chance of rejoining the others, we need to go south or west. _Arta crept low onto the main part of the bridge, which stuck out like a tongue towards the hillocks where the Raiders and Talons had set up their respective camps. Striking south would run straight into their line of fire._ And west … _From the edge of the bridge, she could overlook Old Olney, the buildings laid out in a pattern of geometric simplicity. The roads, pavements, squares and alleyways had an air of desolation, like the plan of a toy town in which the people had been left out. But ever and anon, she could see movement which confirmed the presence of its latest and most deadly inhabitants. Escape in that direction was utterly impossible.

The upside was that their opponents would find it extremely hard to outflank them. However the great height of the bridge made firing upwards at its defenders a difficult prospect, thus reducing the value of such manoeuvres in the first place. In the end, the significant strategic element for both sides was simple: there was only one way up the bridge … and one way down.

Seeing that Jericho had joined her on the lip of roadway, she asked, "What d'you think they're up to?"

"If I were one of 'em now, I'd be reckoning up my chances of survival if it came to rushing the position. And I'd figure those weren't real high. I'd want to send for reinforcements."

"What if they combined forces?"

"Still very iffy, and somehow I can't see 'em doing it. Seems like your Mr. Burke wants you alive, but my hunch is the Raiders need a corpse to lay the myth of the Angel of Death. Different aims don't make for good alliances."

"And Burke's payments?"

"Are only good if he's present and in force. Otherwise they'll hope to grab what they can off him _and _kill you."

"Looks like we only have Burke to worry about then. The Talons can get a message to him far quicker by radio, even if they have to go back to that transmitter in the hills."

"Ah, well I wouldn't totally count on that. Without advanced tech, Wastelanders have fallen back on more traditional methods of communication. Like smoke signals, heliograph, semaphore, that kind of thing. Believe me Raiders can send a simple message like 'Get the fuck over here' across the Wastes in pretty short order."

Arta sighed. "If only they'd arrive at the same time and fight each other we might have a chance." She considered. "What if we send our own message for help?"

"The molerat's arse of the situation is we've got nothing to burn, no mirrors and no flags. Not even a goddamn pigeon. There's maybe a chance of someone else spotting _their_ signals; it ain't much to hang a hope on though."

"So what can we do?"

"Conserve our rations, watch, wait and pray to god."

The sun moved around in the sky, bringing the heat of mid-afternoon upon them. The Mirelurks and Deathclaws went about their daily activities; the enemy gave no sign.

"Wanna place a small wager on who gets here first?" Jericho contemplated a cigarette dog end as though deciding whether there was any mileage left in it.

Arta drummed her fingers restlessly on the barrel of her rifle. "It might help pass the time. Fifty caps that its Katrina and Leo leading an army of Supermutants and Ghouls."

Jericho chuckled. "That sounds too much like taking your money."

"A girl can dream. Okay, a hundred caps it's the Talon reinforcements."

"Two hundred on the Raiders. Might as well make it exciting."

"Why not three hundred then?"

"You're on." Casually he added, "Seeing as we've got plenty of time, why don'tcha fill me in about this new plan of yours to save Megaton. I'm a mite curious to know."

Arta told him. Jericho's face remained carefully neutral as she did so.

Eventually he said, rubbing his beard, "Well that could've saved us a hell of a lot of trouble. Not that it would've been easy, but compared to all we've been through …"

"Yeah, we've been through a lot together, haven't we? Where does that leave us, d'you reckon?"

"The hell if I know. Still if it means anything to you kid, you can consider yourself a real Wastelander now."

"Thanks Jericho. I always was one, although I didn't know it. Even if I haven't got the psycho shakes or tried raw Mirelurk meat."

"You may get a chance soon enough. Because I think you owe me three hundred caps."

Arta raised her eyes. From the open ground to the southeast, a brown stain was spreading like a plague of locusts across the land. Through her scope it became many tanned, sweating and grimy individuals, toiling in the late afternoon sun as they carried slung rifles, flamethrowers and rocket launchers.

"I'll pay you tomorrow if that ever comes."

* * *

_It looks like being a particularly beautiful sunset, _Arta thought. _The western hills are wreathed in a golden haze, and every building in Old Olney is picked out in a delicate shade of rose. Is it the nearness of death that makes it seem so achingly lovely, a bittersweet reminder of everything that we're about to lose? It seems we're destined to leave nothing behind but our bones and a few memories in the minds of others._

She asked Jericho. "Why haven't they attacked?"

"Still arguing over tactics, I guess. They're probably concerned about the Mirelurks, which they should be. If I was their commander, then I'd want to get rid of those bastards before trying anything else. By the way, when the attack starts, the Raiders with the Rocket launchers have to go down first. I counted three. Those will really fuck up our shit if we let 'em."

Arta placed the crosshairs of her rifle on the head of one of the Raiders porting the heavy missile tubes. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with hyacinthine eyes and perfect cheekbones. _The goddess of love might look like that. Well, goddesses can die too._ Confident in their superior numbers, the Raiders were assembling in front of the mounds in plain view. A separate group of them was beginning to advance slowly towards the lake with flame units and shotguns.

Jericho growled, "This is it. We can't let 'em negate one of our main advantages. We've gotta draw 'em into attacking prematurely. Prepare to take the fuckers down_._"

Exposing her bare arm, Arta pressed the ugly, stubby psycho hypodermic into her vein. She had already injected med-x, snorted jet and swallowed a buffout pill. With the cocktail of drugs swirling through her system, she felt like an invincible warrior goddess.

She said, "I'm ready."

Without further ado, she brought the late Sam Walsh's black sniper rifle up to her shoulder and sighted. _Goodbye my sweet cheeked goddess. _The .308 bullet was on its way with its freight of death as Arta was switching to the next target. In this case she aimed the shot into the launcher tube as it was turned towards her, the glare of the explosion filling the scope, the screams of the nearby Raiders distorted by the wind. The warrior with the third launcher was shot through his shaven head just after he'd fired. The missile streaked upwards towards the bridge but flew harmlessly overhead.

Jericho's arm went back like a bowler's as he pitched a grenade in a high arc towards the party preparing to attack the Mirelurks. It fell amongst the flamer wielders causing burning gasoline to spread and ignite those in close proximity. The Mirelurks being thoroughly disturbed, the Hunters on the edge of the pool began to run towards the nearest Raiders, while others surfaced angrily. The King leaned forward in a peculiar hunch to generate the mysterious energy that was its most deadly weapon. The remainder of the Raiders with the shotguns clutched their heads and died.

Lobbing another grenade, Jericho shouted, "Keep firing, we're beginning to get 'em riled."

Arta was sighting and shooting almost instinctively now, prioritising targets with hunting rifles. Three more Raiders fell in quick succession. A roar of anger arose from their ranks, and the main body started to surge towards the foot of the bridge in a disorganised manner. Bullets began to whine nearby.

Jericho snapped, "Switch to grenades now! Before they can start climbing."

Recalling her baseball days, Arta pitched a frag grenade precisely in front of the packed mass of bodies, while Jericho's own toss fell slightly beyond, the twin clouds of shrapnel combining to slice through leather armour and flesh. The momentum of the attack was halted, and the second and third casts butchered Raiders who were clambering over the bloodied and torn bodies of those already slain. Almost at the same time, a group of three Mirelurk Hunters charged into the flank of the attacking horde, cutting a broad swathe through it as swipes from their pincered claws instantly decapitated or disembowelled any human within reach. Jericho switched to his Chinese assault rifle, firing short, accurate bursts at any Raiders who managed to gain a foothold on the slipway, which was awash with blood. Arta continued to throw grenades. In the space of less than a minute, she had extinguished more lives than in her entire time in the Capital Wasteland, echoing the scenes of massacre in her dreams.

The Raiders wavered. Some were beginning to retreat or flee in total disorder, still pursued by the Mirelurks. Others milled about in confusion. Sensing the moment was right, Arta took hold of Jericho's sword, _White Mist_, stood up in plain view and spoke loud and clear.

"I warned you before that you would all perish. I'm warning you for the last time. Leave now before the Angel of Death strikes you down."

The last rays of sunlight glittered from the blade as she held it up, so that from the viewpoint of the Raiders it seemed to blaze like a torch. The sound that arose from their throats this time was a collective moan of terror.

Jericho said exultantly, "You've done it, they're breaking! We can win this!"

In dribs and drabs the Raiders were backing off, none attempting to fire at the commanding figure looking down on them. _He's right, we are going to win after all!_

There was a whooshing sound. A long trail of vapour was followed by a huge explosion amongst the retreating Raiders. And then another and another.

Arta changed the focus of her gaze. The low hills were lined with black uniformed troops.

There was a barked word of command. Weapons were raised. A withering fire poured down on the demoralised and terrified Raiders. More and more began to fall, the survivors trying to get away rather than fight back, but it availed them nothing. The slaughter did not cease until Raider corpses were heaped in mounds and even the wounded had been ruthlessly put out of their misery.

The only Raiders to escape were those already fleeing from the Mirelurk Hunters. It was to the latter that the newly arrived Talons turned their attention. Missiles and grenades rained down on the lumbering creatures, which soon began to limp badly. Volleys of laser and sniper fire followed, and eventually the brutes toppled over. The Mirelurk King was targeted by several missiles, and with a final croak of protest, expired. The rest of its subjects took refuge beneath the lake.

Smoke drifted and a silence fell.

* * *

"Looked at in one way, it's more than halved the problem."

Arta was sure Jericho realised this was whistling in the dark. The Talons were a stronger, better equipped and more disciplined force than the Raiders, and though not so numerous, they had taken no significant casualties in the battle. The jaws of the trap were as tight as ever.

_And we were so close to a famous victory. _Watching the last remnant of the Raiders skulking away, Arta mused that they would have seen the Angel of Death call down the vengeance of heaven upon them, an event which had occurred as though on cue. Whatever happened here, her legend was growing stronger by the day, even by the hour.

Jericho had made no comment on this, but he would know that the timing of the enemy reinforcement, while particularly unfortunate from a Raider viewpoint as well as their own, needed nothing supernatural to explain it.

Instead he coughed and spat. "Something's going down."

The Talons, unlike the Raiders, had preferred to remain mostly in the cover of the hills, despite their numbers. Now a small group had appeared to the southwest, close to the pylons beneath the next section of the freeway. Amidst the black uniforms was a man in a pale white suit.

"Look who's come to dinner!"

Arta could identify her principle foe with the naked eye even at this distance. But she raised her sniper scope to take a better look at the helmeted and armoured woman he was holding close to him, as though a prisoner. The magnification of the lens showed the setting sun reflecting in a golden glare from the visor of a Vault Security helmet, and a few inches behind, from Burke's tinted glasses, as he held the ten millimetre silenced pistol to his captive's head. She was wearing Arta's own black combat armour.

"He … he's got Katrina."

"Give me that!" Jericho wrenched the rifle from her grasp, put his eye to the telescopic sight. Arta could see that his hands were trembling, and sweat was running from his brow.

Burke called out. "Do you see?" He pulled up the helmet visor.

Arta heard Jericho let out a long sigh. Lowering the weapon, he said to her abruptly. "Take a look."

With a premonition of fear, Arta received back the sniper. As soon as she focused it, the scope began to shake, and the pale visage she was trying to hold it on jiggered wildly from side to side.

It was Clover. Her violet blue eyes squinted into the sun, and she was chewing gum with a phlegmatic air that surely concealed inner tension.

Arta desperately tried to concentrate her thoughts amidst the torrent of agonizing emotions rushing through her. How much did Burke know of what Clover meant to her? What were his intentions? To hold her hostage? Shoot her? _What can I do, what can I say to stop the worst happening?_

Her blood running cold, she fought to avoid her voice betraying her. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted, to talk." Burke's voice had a resonance which suggested he knew he had the upper hand. "I've someone here who I believe has a special place in your heart."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Arta shouted back. "She's just my slave."

"Oh, I think she's a little more than that." Arta could see Burke's smirk through the scope. "Otherwise I wouldn't be standing out here in the open."

"If you harm a hair on her head …" Arta realised that she'd lost the plot; the prospect of Clover dying because of something she said or did was too overwhelming.

"Well, it seems both of us have a favourite slave," Burke simpered. "But as it happens, I don't intend …" Before he could continue, Jericho had snatched back the rifle from Arta and raised it menacingly.

"Can you hear me, motherfucker?"

"Your mode of address needs polishing, but yes, I hear you."

"The bitch you're holding don't mean shit to me. In fact I'd be more than happy to see her die. So you may as well let her go, or I'm gonna shoot you both in the head." The rifle barked, and a spurt of dust flew up an inch from Burke's foot.

Burke's chest deflated as though he'd let out a sigh. "I fail to see why a young woman of your ability continues to associate with such knuckledraggers. They only waste your time. I always meant to release her." He gave a signal to a nearby Talon. "Untie her hands, and give her back her weapon. No, not the magnum, the sword, you fool."

Arta could hardly believe what was happening. Clover was buckling on the _shishkebab_ with its tank, and beginning to walk towards the bridge, covered every yard of the way by a forest of weapons, still chewing her gum mechanically.

When she'd almost reached the foot of the bridge, Burke called out. "Wait a moment, my dear!" Looking in Jericho's direction, he added. "If you would be so obliged …"

With a grunt Jericho lowered the sniper rifle, and Burke began to scramble for the cover of the nearby freeway pylon. Clover meanwhile was methodically looting the Raider corpses lying around her. Strapping on two rifles, and stuffing ammunition cases and grenades into her pockets, she began to swiftly ascend the slipway.

Arta's heart was pounding, expecting any moment to hear a volley of shots. But none came. Gaining the top of the bridge, Clover swallowed her gum and gave a broad grin.

From somewhere out of sight, Arta heard Burke's voice. "Can we now talk like civilised people?"

Derisively Arta shouted back, "Burke, if you even knew the meaning of the word! I've nothing to say to you."

"Very well, my dear. As before I will give you time to weigh up your options, which are very limited. I hope that this time you'll conclude the wisest course is to join with me. Think carefully as your decision could govern the fate of many in the Wasteland other than yourselves.

Regardless of that, the alternatives will be extremely unpleasant for you and your companions. Consider well, but not too long."

* * *

"I reckon we'd have all got away," Clover said, tenderly stroking Arta's hair, "If it hadn't been for that power fist."

Masses of ragged grey clouds showed stark against the last vestiges of sunset. Amidst the vastness of the landscape, it was a backdrop suitable for a world-shaking final conflict, a Twilight of the Gods. The constant, stiff breeze had taken on a chillier edge, and Arta pressed against Clover for warmth. Despite the appearance of harmony between them, her mind was churning over as she considered the extraordinary circumstances of Clover's return. She was on tenterhooks to hear her account of the preceding events.

Their initial ecstatic greeting had been interrupted by Jericho's furious reaction. Seizing Clover by the shoulders, he'd shaken her violently.

"Where the hell is my daughter? What the fuck's happened to her?"

He was pale and sweating. Clover bore the manhandling patiently.

"Calm down, won't you? She's alive, so far as I know. I know it looks bad with me having the sword and armour. But I don't think they got her, and I'll explain what happened if you give me time."

He'd remained restlessly pacing back and forth, like an anxious father awaiting news of a birth, while Clover huddled up with Arta to tell her story.

"It was one of the maddest fights ever; there was no telling which way it was gonna go. To start with we caught them by surprise; they didn't know what the hell was going on or who was attacking them. That worked for us at first. We were cutting them down before they could do anything, flinging grenades in amongst the campfires. They probably thought their own allies had betrayed them. In fact I think some of the Black Scorpions _were_ striking on our side in the confusion.

Then the Talons started wheeling out their big guns: snipers in the buildings with rocket launchers and high-powered rifles. That began to hurt us. Much more and we'd have all died; there weren't enough of us to take the casualties those weapons could inflict.

But things changed again in our favour when Katrina took out your sword. As soon as the Talons saw it flaming, they stopped using heavy weapons, and even automatics close to the area she was in. When I realised that, I called to Leo and the others to group around her. We made a solid wedge of bodies on every side; it was like a huge bristling porcupine of weapons moving along. I thought then we might make it out after all.

But they kept at us, using single shot weapons like pistols, snipers and lasers. It was strange: I'd see someone go down shot through the head, yet I had this feeling that none of the bullets had my name on it, as though I was living a charmed life. I guess that's what the rest were feeling, as though there was a magic circle around Katrina the enemy couldn't penetrate.

When they'd weakened us, they closed in around to fight hand to hand. It was intense, up close and personal. Leo was magnificent. He was swinging that nailboard to take out whole ranks of them, even though he'd been wounded several times. But there were getting to be too many enemies, and I could see we were losing the fight.

Then I heard Katrina shout, "Use the bombs now!" The Raiders started throwing down what looked like homemade grenades. Suddenly there were billowing clouds of thick smoke everywhere. In the confusion I managed to break out of the circle with Leo and Katrina. We groped blindly by instinct in what we hoped was the right direction, Leo supporting Katrina, who was moaning in a strange manner. A large building loomed out of the murk, and he put her down behind a column at the side of it. She was beginning to thrash around and convulse.

Leo said, "She was hit by some kind of shock glove. It seems to have given her a fit. Stay with her and make sure she's comfortable and can't hurt herself. Don't disturb her unnecessarily or put anything in her mouth."

I asked, "What are you going to do?

"I remember this place. There used to be a camp of my brothers nearby. I will try to draw off the enemy towards them."

It was an awful moment, and all I could manage was, "Take care Uncle Leo. I love you."

"Good bye Clover," he sighed, and turned to run swiftly away.

I was afraid that Katrina would make a noise and reveal our position, but after what Uncle Leo had said, I thought putting a hand over her mouth could make things worse. Fortunately she stopping moaning, and then seemed to fall unconscious."

Jericho paused in his pacing. "She sometimes had fits as a child. They never lasted long. That was why she generally took fewer drugs than Raiders usually do. That might account for her success in gaining power in the tribe. Sometimes it helps to be the only one not out of your skull. And it made them look up to her as someone special."

Clover resumed, "It seemed that many of the Talons did follow Uncle thinking we were still with him. Not long afterwards, I heard a bellowing noise, followed by the sound of a minigun."

Arta asked, "So the Talons and Supermutants fought each other? Who won?"

"I think the mutants had the best of it to start with. Shortly afterwards several Talons returned, firing backwards at those horrible Centaur creatures."

"You mean things with a human body at the front and a horse's at the back like in mythology?"

"No, although there's certainly some resemblance and they're probably a kind of mutant cross-breed. They've got hairless human-like heads and torsos, but their faces are kinda _stretched_, and they have long three-pronged tongues like tentacles that they use to whip their enemies. Where the horse would be is an ugly fleshy body, which they drag along with six arms, kinda shuffling on their hands. It makes you sick just to look at them."

Arta made a face. "Gross! But surely they can't move very fast like that?"

"Well no, they can't. Apart from their nasty habit of spitting radioactive goo, they're more of a nuisance than a serious threat. Supermutants use them like guard dogs, and if there hadn't been a whole bunch of them following behind, the Talons would've killed the Centaurs easily. As it was, there was a right old battle before the mercs started to get the upper hand."

Clover went on to explain that this was when she'd removed the helmet, armour and sword Katrina was wearing. "I figured that anyone catching a glimpse might take her for a dead Raider who'd been stripped of her equipment."

But with the numbers of Talons around her increasing, Clover decided that the best way to keep them from finding Katrina was to put on the armour herself and try running for it. Unfortunately she'd been quickly spotted and surrounded. "Once they saw the sword flame, they gathered round like moths. That's why I'm fairly sure they didn't discover Katrina." Clover had fought desperately, despite running out of ammunition, but the numbers of her attackers were too great. Eventually one knocked the sword from her hand, and though she battled on without weapons, they'd captured her soon afterwards.

She'd at least managed to discourage them from removing her helmet, and as her hair was shaved at the back, they hadn't noticed the different colour. "They were convinced I was you, Arta, and put me under guard while they sent a message to their commander."

That had taken some time, and it was dawn before they'd dragged her on a sled in front of Burke. "He was sitting arrogantly on a chair, like he was the King of the Wastes. I got a real buzz out of disappointing him as to who he'd caught. I think for a moment his jaw dropped. Anyway the bastard who'd brought me in got hung for the mistake. Good job too."

"And then …?" Arta had been dreading this part of the story.

"And then I got to meet him. Burke. He was … older than I'd been expecting but …" Clover hesitated.

"A lot more charming?"

"Yes. I wondered if he might resemble Eulogy in some ways, however …" Again Clover seemed to flounder. "I was afraid, afraid of what he'd do. So it was surprising when he treated me almost as though I was his guest. He got the Talons to remove my bonds, then he very suavely invited me to his tent."

"To do what?" Arta asked apprehensively.

"To just talk. Of course I was still expecting him to have me tortured. But he didn't offer any violence or the threat of it."

Jericho said, "Yeah, the guy's a fucking humanitarian! So did you have a good old chinwag with him about us?"

Clover bridled. "If you mean did I tell him about where you'd gone or anything else important, then no I didn't. In fact, I tried to escape."

"Oh, and how did that go?"

"Well, even though the Talons had warned him about me, he left my hands and feet untied. So as soon as he seemed to have taken his eyes off me for a moment, I attacked."

Jericho gave a short laugh. "And let me guess, he kicked your arse!"

"Yes. I tried practically everything I knew but he seemed to anticipate my every move, was able to counter at will. I couldn't understand how someone his age could react with such speed or block with such strength."

"I can. With tech from the Commonwealth. Walsh was from there. I reckon Burke is too."

"Well maybe. If you can program combat style, then his was very simple and elegant. He seemed to enjoy fighting me, and that made me even more angry. But it didn't do any good. Eventually he was able to apply a hold and force me to the ground."

The image of Burke pinning Clover helpless to the floor was one that brought all Arta's fears to the surface. "And what happened then?"

"He asked me if I'd learned my lesson. I told him next time I'd just shoot him. He laughed."

"I meant, what did he do next?"

"I already told you, we talked, and I told him nothing useful."

"Simple as that?" Arta tried to read Clover's expression for any hint of shame. She seemed to have slightly averted her eyes.

"More or less. He asked what I was to you and where I thought you were. I said I was your slave, and that you were somewhere far away. He appeared to accept both answers. I can't remember anything else important we discussed. Except … " Clover grimaced. "He kept saying how much he admired you."

_Is she telling the whole truth or anything like it? I know myself what Burke's like … and what he did to Mei Wong. _Arta forced herself to confront the uncomfortable reality that, despite their intimacy and declarations of love, she hadn't known Clover all that long. While she could almost swear that her companion's devotion to her was absolute, there was still the question of how she interpreted that loyalty. It had not prevented her conspiring with Jericho against Sarah Lyons. Perhaps Eulogy's former bodyguard might consider other compromises if she could make herself believe they wouldn't harm her lover's vital interests. As in the old mantra, _what you don't know can't hurt you._

Unbidden Arta's mind conjured a mental picture of Clover and Burke rolling together on the ground, tearing off one another's clothes and then … no! Clover was _not _Mei Wong; she would surely refuse to submit to such a humiliation. And yet … could she honestly say that she would never contemplate …

"Then how d'you account for what he said before letting you go?" Arta spoke sharply.

In a hurt tone, Clover said, "I can't. Look, if you think I've betrayed you, why don't you just say so? I thought we knew each other better." She turned her face away. "If you really don't trust me, ask me to leave and I'll go."

_She sounds so genuinely wounded! How could I suspect someone so willing to put her life on the line for me, who was prepared to sacrifice herself so that I could escape! She's practically my soul mate. Maybe the combat drugs have made me paranoid._

_I have to allow for Burke's twisted intellect. Torturing Clover, holding her hostage, even seducing her would be too obvious a ploy for someone of his consummate subtlety. He would anticipate that her reaction to any such threat would be to clam up completely, perhaps even kill herself._

Instead he would continue to put her off guard, test her reactions, place doubts in her mind. He wouldn't need to force answers to his questions, had probably concluded by simple observation that her value was far above that of that of a mere ally. Then, at the right moment he would return her as an apparent gift. Except for Jericho spoiling things …

_What did he hope to achieve? To sow suspicion? Or was it even cleverer than that?_

Gently rubbing the trembling Clover's shoulder, she said sadly, "I'm sorry, I was wrong to doubt you. You've proved yourself loyal time and time over. But Burke is very smart. He's let you go for a reason, I'm sure of it. Otherwise he wouldn't have brought you here, he'd have killed you. I just need time to figure out what his game is. Meanwhile will you forgive me, will you stay with me?"

Clover had put her head in her hands, but now cautiously peeped out from behind them. "Are you saying that you trust me, completely and absolutely?"

Her cheeks wet, Arta said, "Yes, I trust you completely and absolutely."

Clover removed her hands. "Then I'll stay at your side." She unbuckled the _shishkebab_, knelt and offered the hilt to Arta. "I return this as a pledge of my loyalty."

Arta accepted the sword solemnly, feeling the time honoured implications of the act. _The association of a weapon with a vow of faith. She is my knight, my samurai_. On an impulse, she kissed the blade."Now our fates are bound together."

_A sisterhood sworn on the blade of the Angel of Death. What dark destiny is calling to us?_

Jericho coughed. "Right, now that's sorted out, can we arrange the watch periods?"

"Watch periods?"

"Yeah. Look those mercs could be here for the long haul. If we don't work out a way of resting alternately, we ain't gonna last more than a day or two, especially since we're already shagged out. I suggest you two sleep first, and I'll take the first four hour watch, because I'm used to it, plus I can use chems to keep awake. Then you can take the next one together, to make sure neither of you dozes off."

Clover said, "Fine, but I can take one on my own. D'you think I was allowed to fall asleep whilst watching Eulogy's back?"

"All right, whatever. We should be able to reduce the length of the watch periods after the first one. But I hope they ain't smart enough to try stuff to keep us awake. That could be a killer. Hopefully they're gonna need to bivouac for a while too."

Clover said, "Yeah, I can say from personal experience that they forced marched all the way here. That fucking slave-driver made sure of that."

"Fingers crossed then. As soon as it gets dark, I'll try to scavenge some leather armour for you to lie on."

Arta yawned. "You know suddenly I feel so tired. I think I could sleep for about a hundred years."

* * *

She stood at the top of a metal stairway, in the midst of a large circular chamber, bounded by soaring columns and ancient stonework, and filled with the gurgling and rushing sound of water. In front of her was a thick plate glass window through which a torus-shaped room was visible, fitting within the larger monumental structure like a crouching metal spider. Transparent pipes filled with weirdly glowing liquid ran outwards from the central axis, which extended up to the darkness of the domed ceiling, and down into a lapping pool of water beneath.

On the other side of the window, in a light which seemed oddly hazy, she could see her father, standing next to the banks of equipment arranged around the hub of the compartment. He seemed to be working furiously to make adjustments.

Suddenly an equipment panel exploded nearby, and klaxons started to sound. Warning lights flashed on the consoles. Her father staggered and turned to lurch towards her, making a clawing gesture in the air before collapsing to the floor.

She heard his voice gasp, "Run, get out of here!"

"Daddy!" she shrieked, banging wildly on the glass. She searched frantically for a means to get inside the control room. A sign read _Bulkhead Door_, but she could find no opening mechanism. Her veins ran cold with fear, as she stared down at her father's crumpled body. The pipboy on his wrist was flashing red; the warning sign for extreme radiation poisoning.

"You can't help him." The voice behind her was well modulated, dispassionate.

She turned. The bearded man in the white robes stood close by. The light seemed to have grown brighter, and the haze thicker, so that it resembled a swirling mist.

Reaching out to pluck at his sleeve, Arta cried, "Please, please do something if you can! He's dying!"

"Hush, my child. There's nothing _to_ be done. We stand outside time, and what you see is one possible future."

Arta turned back to where her father had been; yet the whole room seemed to have dissolved into silvery mist.

"A future that will come to pass only if you wish it." Arta remembered the hissing tone. The veil of glowing vapour pulled back to reveal the hooded figure, the cowl of its robe creating an absolute void where the face should have been. The two stood together, still as chess pieces waiting to be moved, one black, one white.

"What do you mean?" Arta asked querulously.

"You face a choice. The event you've seen will happen only if you follow the way of folly."

"The way of folly?"

The bearded man cleared his throat, as though embarrassed. "I will not deceive you as my counterpart seeks to do. The road you tread is a hard one. It will require the sacrifice of your father's life … and your own."

"What!" Arta seized the lapels of the white robe. "What are you saying? You want me to let my father die, and then to kill myself?"

The man was unruffled by Arta's attempt to shake him. "For the greater good of the Wasteland, perhaps even for all humanity."

"No! No, that can't be right! Why does a good man have to die to help others? Why do _I _have to die?"

The man bowed his head. "So it is decreed."

"By whom? Decreed by whom? For what purpose?"

The hooded figure gave a thin laugh. "Because it is expedient that one man … and one woman … die for the people."

Arta continued to tug at the man's robe. "How long? How long have we got?"

He shook his head. "At most … months. Perhaps not even that. But you should rather fear those who would kill the soul."

"_No! I won't give up my father! I won't give up my life!" _Arta turned away sobbing, but when she looked back the white robed man had vanished.

"Where's he gone?"

"You rejected his absurd notions … correctly. It remains for me to tell you of the glorious path you have chosen." The dark robes loomed through the mist, the harsh whispering seemed almost in Arta's ear.

"I haven't chosen any path. I don't even know who you are."

"We are alike, you and I. Two souls sprung from the one source. And together we are immortal, unstoppable."

"How are we alike? What kind of creature are you?"

"I've spent so much time at your side; it saddens me that you don't recognise me." Arta started. The voice had changed to become female and unmistakable. "My angel, you said you'd never forget me."

_No, it's impossible. But this is all a dream anyway. Complete nonsense._

As though she'd spoken, the voice that so resembled Amata's continued. "Tell me which dream you'd prefer to become real. For you and your father to carry on living? For us to be together again? Not just for a few more months, but forever."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Is it? Many said it was ridiculous to try leaving the Vault, but you did it."

Angrily Arta retorted, "The man in white said you'd try to deceive me. Living forever _is _completely impossible. Do you think I'm going to believe you because you can make yourself sound like people I know and trust?"

"Then will you believe me if I sound like someone you don't trust?" The voice behind the hood had altered to become a man's, and Arta shivered with recognition at its smoothly persuasive tone. "Whether or not you find it congenial, I cannot speak with any voice other than my own."

"Most of us have only one."

"And some of us have more than one face." Amata's voice again. "For such as you and I, many things are possible beyond the normal."

"You keep saying we're alike, and yet you still don't say how."

"_Know thyself, _wasn't that the ancient credo? And in knowing yourself, you will know me also."

"That's no answer. I already know who I am. I'm Ar …" She stopped, faltering over the words. Desperately she cried, "What do you want of me?"

The male voice spoke again exultantly. "To join with me as it should have been from the beginning. The time has come for us to purge humanity from the taint of its sin."

"I told you before I wouldn't do that!"

"Do you think you can put aside the sword so easily? See how it has come back to you! Return to your true allegiance, your true self!"

"I don't know what that is, I don't know anything anymore!" A sob in her voice, Arta reached forward to pull back the hood.

* * *

Her mouth was dry and it was dark. She could not move her arms. For a horrible moment she thought she was being crucified again, jerking awake to find she was still in pain. But there was no pain. Rather there was a wooziness, a confusion to her thoughts. Something was placed smothering over her mouth; in panic her eyes shot open.

She was still on the bridge near Old Olney. But she was lying uncomfortably face downwards with a gag over her mouth and her arms tied behind her. The realisation cut through the haze in her brain. _I've been captured again. But how? Jericho surely couldn't have failed in his guard. _Her bewildered mind jumped to a conclusion. _Betrayal! I've been betrayed! By Clover! Burke must have turned her somehow!_

A boot was placed under her belly, and she was roughly flipped over. A dark figure stood over her, the cold glittering stars above him.

It was Jericho.

He reached down and grabbed her by the shoulders, dragged her a short way across the cracked road surface. Then he lifted her slightly into a sitting position, and she felt a warm back against her own. Twisting her head round, she saw Clover in the same posture, tied and gagged, her eyes reflecting back her own despair.

Leaving them back to back, Jericho retreated a short distance and sat down cross legged in a position where they could see him by turning their heads sideways. He lit up a cigarette and puffed on it a while, regarding them thoughtfully, as though admiring his handiwork.

Eventually he gave a long exhale, and cleared his throat.

"Well now, I hope neither of you are needing to be sick. Gagging while you're gagged would make a nasty mess. 'Fraid I had to use a little chloroform, but it'll soon wear off.

Sorry if you ain't too comfy at the moment. See, I couldn't risk there being any misunderstandings or accidents. People lose their temper at times like this, and then bad things can happen. This way it's helluva lot easier."

Arta began making a muffled but angry noise through her gag.

"Yeah I can tell that you're mad at me right now, and that's why I'm not taking the gag off. So I can say my piece without interruption. You might as well listen up; it's not like you've any choice in the matter."

He paused to inhale, then continued. "Now it don't take a genius to figure that you're wondering why you're tied up like this. And you're probably afraid its 'cos I'm about to turn you over to Burke. Well you can stop worrying about that at least."

Jericho leaned forward as though to make an important point. "See I ain't no Judas. And even if I were, I wouldn't trust that slippery fucker to let me walk out alive, much less deliver me thirty pieces of silver.

No, to get straight to the point, I'm leaving, plain and simple. I've been thinking about it for some time, and I've had enough. I didn't sign up for your fucking crusade. I didn't agree to be hounded across the Wastes by every scumbag mercenary and Raider that megalomaniac could round up. All I wanted was to stop the place I lived in being blown to hell by that damn bomb."

His voice took on an incredulous, outraged tone. "And it turns out to be a fucking wild goose chase anyway. You were more obsessed with finding dear old dad than saving us poor bastards from being incinerated. You knew damn well the solution was right on our doorstep all the time.

I guess I should've been smarter, should've figured you out better, instead of letting my dick do the thinking. I really swallowed your saint act hook, line and sinker. Maybe mass murder was too much for you to handle, but you had no reason to give a shit about us. That innocent face hides one of the sneakiest minds in the Wastes.

I've no bloody doubt that if it came down to the nitty gritty, you'd be prepared to sacrifice any and all of us in the cause of your new messiah complex. Including …" with a contemptuous glance at Clover "the latest in your long line of dykes. Wait a moment while I put my fingers down my throat."

Arta made an even louder muffled growling.

"Yeah, you're no doubt thinking, what a hypocrite! Well that's the whole fucking point, isn't it? We're all fucking hypocrites trying to shaft one another. You've really made the grade as a Wastelander; I have to admit it. As a conniving, back-stabbing selfish bitch." Waving a hand angrily, he added, "You and that bastard out there, you deserve each other!"

In a slightly calmer tone he continued, "So it's a matter of priorities. That means taking care of my own arse, and my daughter's, if she's still alive. With you off the scene, she might come to her senses. And Megaton will be a safe place for both of us. At least I'm gonna do my damnedest to make sure it is, which is a lot bloody more than you ever did."

He paused to drag on his cigarette. "Enough gabbing, it's time for me to go. If you manage to escape before Burke's mercs overrun you, you're welcome to any ammo and weapons I can't carry. Too bad I can carry quite a lot."

This time Clover tried to make herself heard.

"Okay, I may regret this, but I guess you're both entitled to some last words."

As soon as her gag was removed, Clover growled fiercely, "I never trusted you, you dirty bastard!"

"Yeah, I got that impression. Perhaps you might as well save your breath after all."

"Just a fucking moment! How the hell d'you think you're gonna get away when we're completely surrounded?"

"My, my, a smart question after all! To be honest, for an old hand like me sneaking out ain't so hard, especially with the Lurks mostly dead and plenty of corpses to hide amongst. But it so happens I've gotta better way." Jericho reached into a pouch. "See I wondered how Walsh figured he could get Arta away with only one Stealth Boy. And so I turned to the Good Book for the answer." He held up Walsh's New Testament. "Like I reckoned, there's another tucked in the front cover."

"But …" Clover's remaining words were muffled as Jericho replaced her gag and removed Arta's.

Taking a long calming breath, Arta said, "I feel sorry for you, Jericho."

"Ah, the soft-soap approach!" Sarcastically he added, "Do go on!"

"You've been with us pretty much all the way. Now when it comes to the final battle, you're quitting."

"Yeah well." He glanced again at Clover. "Loyalty breeds loyalty, don't it?"

"Screw that, and soft-soap with it! The only person you've ever been loyal to is yourself. But however dirty you may have fought, you've never been a coward. And now you're gonna run from the best chance you'll ever get to be a hero. That's why I feel sorry for you, that in the end you didn't have the guts. It'll gnaw at you, and keep gnawing, until the drink kills you, a sad, disappointed, bitter old man. We may die and leave a legend, but you, you'll be forgotten."

Jericho stared at her, as though too furious to reply. Then he angrily stuffed the gag back into Arta's mouth, reached down for _White Mist_ and sheathed it.

"You ain't any kind of legend yet, you stupid little cunt! And I'll still do something that people'll remember. Just you watch!"

He placed his hand on the New Testament and vanished.

* * *

_*Queen's Gambit: _In chess, an opening which involves the offered sacrifice of the Queen's pawn. It could however be taken to refer to the sacrifice of the Queen _herself_.

With respect to Clover's eye colour, I could've sworn they were blue when I first looked, but now they seem brownish. Were my eyes or the TV funny? The point is that if they _were _blue, then Clover's description would fit Arta's, apart from her hair.

_Twilight of the Gods:_ Ragnarok, the apocalyptic final act of Norse mythology.

_Consider well but not too long: _Pinched from _Lord of the Rings_ (that's the book people!) and out of the mouth of the Mouth of Sauron, or at least I'd like to think it was he who threatened King Dain thus. Can't believe they didn't put the Mouth in the non-extended film version, he was great!

_Some kind of shock glove: _there are power fists in Fallout NV that add an electromagnetic shock for extra damage versus robots. I haven't yet found any exactly like this in Fallout 3. Of course Talons do carry EMP grenades, but wouldn't use them against humans. Can't resist mentioning that my current New Vegas companion, Veronica, enjoys (power) fisting. And she's so good with her hands. I mean, at a workbench, of course.

And talking of NV, _I LOVE the Cen-taurs: they're so cute! Who can resist those sweet little faces, and the way they shuffle round on all those hands they have! _(From Black Mountain Radio).

_Fits: _as electromagnetic pulses could potentially interfere with the electrical activity of the brain, they might trigger fits in the susceptible. Leo's advice for dealing with one is as near correct as I can get, with the addition that if the fit continues over five minutes or is known never to have happened previously then medical assistance should be sought. Incidentally fits were sometimes considered as visitations from the gods in the ancient world, notably in the case of Julius Caesar.

_It is expedient that one man die for the people: _High Priest Caiaphas' cynical judgement on allowing the Romans to crucify Christ.

_Fear those who would kill the soul: _Christ's warning in Mathew 10:28.

_Thirty pieces of silver: _Paid to Judas for betraying Jesus.*


	33. By the Dawn's Early Light

Ch 33 By the Dawn's Early Light

Walking through the enemy camp gave Jericho an eerie sensation of vulnerability, of being _almost _a ghost. The Talon mercenaries remained for the most part oblivious to the unseen presence amongst them. But ever and anon it seemed some primal instinct would cause one to pause, as though recalling a half-forgotten dream; before shaking himself, and continuing about his duties. Care was needed to ensure they didn't blunder into him by accident or notice the crunch of gravel or the inexplicable appearance of a footprint. Rather than a feeling of god-like omnipotence, the thought that most impinged on his consciousness was, _how much longer is this damn thing going to last?_

The impulses that drove him on, that made him put aside the risk and the memory of Arta's scorn, were the simple ones that had shaped human society for millennia. His daughter, if alive, needed him. His city must be protected. Family and home, those powerful urges, overrode loyalties to lovers or comrades in arms. And they were the only things of value that remained beyond an animal urge to survive.

Arta's plan, despite its potential greater security, had too many uncertainties. Eliminating the threat at its source was more likely to ensure Megaton's immediate survival, as well as giving Katrina the best possible reason to respect her father and the least chance of hating him. And afterwards there'd be no one to point the finger of blame. Except Leo perhaps. Yet who would stop to listen to a Supermutant? They'd be too busy trying to kill him.

_In the end you didn't have the guts. _Just as Arta had predicted_, _the words wounded him whenever he recalled them, so he was grateful for the distraction from doing so.

In the midst of the camp of black-clad mercenaries a white suited figure sat on a folding chair, leaning back with his hat tilted over his brows, as though taking a nap. _What a piece of luck finding him asleep! _Jericho loosened _White Mist _in its sheath. A simple, decapitating stroke, such as he'd employed against the Radroach King, would be the easiest way and would minimise the chance of noise. However the head flying off, and the upward spray of blood could attract unwanted attention. Instead he decided to employ a downward stabbing thrust into the neck, requiring him to get a little closer. His state of mind as he approached was one of complete determination. The man would've tortured and killed his daughter given the opportunity, and burned his town to a cinder. Killing him would bring the most satisfaction he could imagine right now, even if in doing so …

Burke rose from the chair and turned. Jericho realised with alarm that he was looking straight in his direction, and reaching into his coat. He threw his body sideways, feeling the thud of the low powered ten millimetre rounds striking his combat armour without penetrating. The stealth boy was still operating, but somehow Burke alone had seen through it.

"A spy! There's a cloaked spy in the camp! He's over there!"

Jericho rolled and scrambled, trying desperately to put bodies between himself and Burke. Confusion amongst the Talons made this a lot easier. In his determination to shoot the intruder, Burke had seized a trooper's assault rifle, and was firing indiscriminately amongst his own men, actually killing one in the process. With a crowd of panicked mercenaries between him and the chattering automatic, Jericho quickly ducked behind the freeway arch, hoping Burke might lose track of him there. He could hear the sound of the mines he'd planted exploding, adding to the mayhem around him. Adrenalin pumping through his veins, he looked west towards the grim walls of Old Olney. In the fading light of the setting moon, he could make out a large, sinister shape creeping behind the line of the fence.

_Just one last trick I can use._ _Hope it doesn't kill me too._

Unslinging his own rife, he fired a short burst at the torso of the monstrosity_. _Then he froze, trying to not even breathe. Silently he prayed, _Please don't run out now!_

* * *

The mind of the Deathclaw was as sharp and precise as its fearsome natural weapons. When the assault rifle rounds impacted on the hardened carapace that formed its epidermis, it turned instinctively in the direction from which they had come. No doubts about personal safety or morality clouded its thoughts. They were mostly focused around a clutch of eggs in the sewers far beneath Old Olney, and its duty to protect them.

It so happened this particular Deathclaw had been fired at before. In the part of its brain where memories lingered, it associated the discomfort with the small, mobile creatures it had encountered while roaming the Wastes in search of a suitable mate. Somehow these pestilent but weak animals were able to inflict pain at a long distance. Now it could sense a whole group of them not far away on the high ground near the easternmost boundary of its territory.

Having established the nature of the threat, the Deathclaw's natural instincts took over, moving instantly to close with its prey as speedily as possible. At the same time it emitted a low, vibrant snarling call which alerted the nearest of its pack mates. Nothing even resembling fear entered the precincts of its long, flat skull. Despite their other annoying characteristics, the small creatures ran very slowly, and died instantly as soon as they were touched even slightly. Dealing with them ought to be a swift and straightforward matter.

* * *

Arta twisted her head to look at Clover, and after exchanging mute signals with their eyes, they contrived to move crab-wise together back to back on their bottoms, until they were alongside a piece of jagged, twisted metal from an automobile wreck. Then with Clover's guidance, Arta sawed away at the leather strips which Jericho had used as improvised bonds. In little over a minute they were both free.

As soon as her gag had been removed, Clover snarled, "If I ever get my hands on that dirty fucker, a red hot poker up the jacksie's the kindest thing I'm gonna do!"

Arta shook her head. "I kept telling myself I shouldn't rely on him. It's my own fault for not seeing this coming. According to his own lights, he's done the smartest thing."

"Fuck that, he deserves to be roasted over a slow fire!"

Although tempted to join Clover in her rant, Arta couldn't quite bring herself to do so. It would be like railing at the sun for burning her. Jericho was what he was, no more, no less, and he had never been a likely candidate for martyrdom. The strangest and worst thing was that she was already missing him. She forced herself to put both invective and regret aside.

"Let's just take a look at what the bastard's left us."

Clover inspected the equipment lying about. "Could be worse. There's some food and water, a couple of assault rifles, your smg and some grenades." She gave an exclamation of surprise. "And he's left Walsh's custom sniper with all its ammunition! I thought he'd have taken that!"

Arta shrugged. "I imagine he didn't need the weight. A Chinese assault's a better general purpose weapon, and he can use his sword for silent kills."

"Then for what its worth, we're fine for ammo and weapons. There's plenty for the automatics, and Walsh had loads of sniper rounds. On the other hand, the rations won't last much longer than a few …"

Clover paused as the sound of automatic fire shattered the silence of the night.

"Something's going down in the Talon camp!"

Excitedly Arta crept forward to the edge of the freeway overlooking the hillocks. She could see the flash of weapons firing, and then the flare of explosions followed by screams.

Beside her Clover exclaimed, "Looks like they're under attack! But who the hell's doing it?"

Flushed with feverish elation, Arta cried, "Jericho! Who else? He's helping us after all!"

Clover raised her eyebrows. "C'mon, that's a bit of a conclusion to jump to. Why would he do it? There's no chance of him killing them all, even if he's partly invisible."

"It's too much of a coincidence," Arta said impatiently. "And look at those explosions, right in the middle of the camp. They must be from grenades or mines You'd have to be close up to do that, and a stealth shield would make it a lot easier. As to what he's up to … " She frowned, then was struck by a sudden inspiration. "Burke! He's going to kill him!"

"Look Arta, I know you're finding it hard to cope with the fact that Jericho tried to completely screw us over, but …"

"It all makes sense!" Arta continued insistently. "Burke's the main threat to Megaton and killing him would give Jericho time to get the bomb defused. And without him, the Talons will be leaderless and …" her voice faltered.

"And will just give up? Is that what you're suggesting? Does that sound likely when they've got us treed here?" Clover gave her a cynical look. "Think about it! Why would Jericho go through the charade of tying us up if he thought that was going to happen?"

"But …" Arta's face fell as she considered what her companion was implying.

Doggedly Clover continued, "If it is Jericho down there, and he's trying to kill Burke, we'd fucking well better hope he doesn't succeed. Because not very long afterwards the Talons are most likely gonna finish us off with a few well-placed rockets. And that's almost certainly what that bastard ex-raider's counting on. Everything sewn up tidily. We'll be dead, he won't be directly responsible and Megaton'll be left alone."

Trying to gather some conviction into her voice, Arta protested, "But what about the risk to his own skin? He'll be right in amongst them, shield or no shield!"

"His skin's threatened as long as Burke lives. And what about Katrina? He cares more about her than anyone, certainly than us. If we're dead, he can spin any story he likes about how he escaped heroically. You're damn right it all makes sense. It makes sense for him, the cocksucker." Clover folded her arms grimly.

_Whether or not I like it, Clover's probably calling it right on this occasion. What makes me think Jericho wouldn't sacrifice us to save his daughter? Even supposing there was a time that he loved me, he knows he's been displaced in my affections._ Arta decided not to contradict Clover further and to deal with the situation as it appeared to be. "The firing's dying down. I wonder what's happened?"

"If Burke's dead, we'll find out soon enough."

"Maybe we should try to sneak out before it's too late. Better than dying on our knees … Wait, look … in the moonlight … there's something large down there, running straight towards the camp!"

A note of excitement in her voice, Clover said, "It's a Deathclaw from Old Olney. The shooting must've attracted it. This could be our chance!"

* * *

Consulting the sensor device which showed him the precise location of cloaked objects, Burke satisfied himself that the infiltrator was concealed behind a freeway pylon. It would be a simple matter to eliminate him. But first …

"Weinstein!"

"Sir?" His field commander hastened to his side, saluting obsequiously.

"I want two squads at the foot of the bridge. Make sure no one can get on or off, even if they're cloaked."

"But Sir, they'll be completely exposed to fire from above!"

"Just do it, commander! I don't give a damn about the casualties for the moment. Once we've got this situation under control, you can withdraw them."

"Yes Sir!"

Weinstein scurried away, and Burke turned his attention back to the hidden enemy.

"You men, I want you to flank the pylon on both sides and …"

Burke's voice failed as he noticed that the small, motionless red dot on the sensor map had been joined by another large one. It was moving towards him very rapidly indeed. He looked up in alarm.

Despite its size, the Deathclaw's lean, sinewy body could carry it with great speed and remarkably little sound over the open ground. The neutral colour of its hide blended into the scenery in daylight or darkness, and the nearest Talon troops, distracted by their invisible foe, caught sight of it when it was only thirty yards away. That was far too late. Closing the distance in mere seconds, the creature took a gigantic leap into the midst of its prey. Claws like an array of finely honed swords slashed out in all directions. The Talons' combat armour, primarily designed to resist and cushion the impact of bullets, was cut like the finest of silk cloth. Heads and limbs were detached from torsos and sent flying, dark blood splattering the nightmarish monster that had severed them with such ease. Relentlessly it sprang forward to bring more enemies within the compass of its gore-dripping members.

The mercenaries thus menaced were caught in an existential dilemma. Knowing the swift and deadly nature of the creature, they realised that fleeing was no defence. On the other hand, standing to fight was also a sure sentence of death. But if only some held their ground, then others might get the chance to run. The generally selfish nature of their profession prevailed. All save one made a futile effort to retreat, and the Deathclaw slew him in an instant before immediately pursuing the rest.

_No, not this way! I won't let a dumb Wasteland creature ruin everything! _Burke cursed, then reached into his pocket, producing a sleek dart thrower and a tray of projectiles. He was glad he'd brought this particular weapon, rather than relying on the subtler but less flexible hat-mounted one. It allowed the use of a specific dart for a specific target. The blue-tipped kind should be sovereign against mutated forms of life, causing paralysis to the lower limbs, and effectively slowing the target to a limp. While the Deathclaw rampaged through the front ranks of the mercenaries, he loaded the gun and took aim at its rangy legs.

To his relief it immediately showed signs of slowness, beginning to hobble slightly. But the danger was not over, as the Deathclaw's long limbs allowed it to advance at speed even while partly crippled. Its demonic features were set in an expression of uncompromising ferocity, as it dragged itself relentlessly forward, claws scything through the mercenaries scrambling away up the slope.

In the short time since the Deathclaw's attack, some order had been restored to the Talons' ranks. Several troopers stepped forward with rocket launchers and other heavy weapons, hesitating fractionally as they observed some of their comrades in close proximity to the creature.

"Come on!" Burke shouted. "Fire! Fire now!"

Concluding correctly that their fellows were good as dead, the Talons launched two missiles and a barrage of grenades at the advancing Deathclaw. The monster hesitated as the storm of explosions raged around it, then continued forward.

"Finish it off! It's half-crippled and nearly dead!" The Deathclaw would probably have agreed with Burke's assessment had it understood. Even its superlatively tough constitution wasn't proof against poison and the huge amount of damage it had suffered. But it wasn't in its nature to retreat, and it could sense help was at hand.

A cry of dismay came from below. A second Deathclaw had stolen in from the flank, and was ravaging the mercenaries there like a wolf in the fold. But worse from Burke's viewpoint was that he was now caught between the two monsters: one on the western, the other on the northern slope of the hillock.

More missiles were fired at the new Deathclaw, some from mercenaries further away to the east, with far less effect as it was moving much faster and avoided most of the direct hits. Seeing this, Burke fired a second dart to slow the creature, but it had already swiftly ascended the slope to within striking range of the mercenaries nearby. Seeking a path to withdraw, Burke again urged the Talons to concentrate their fire on the most wounded Deathclaw. Not surprisingly they were more inclined to shoot at whichever was closest to them.

As a consequence, Burke found himself forced to retreat from the first creature, only to get uncomfortably close to the second. Both were now too near to be hit by anything other than small arms. But, driven by desperation, the Talons around him were at last holding their ground to mass an impressive volume of shots, right up to the last moment when the Deathclaws ripped into them. And fresh squads organised by Weinstein were pouring in extra fire from the nearby mounds.

Behind Burke, the original Deathclaw expired with a grunting sigh, its final thoughts flitting back to its early years with a tender mother Deathclaw. But the second creature was almost upon him, slicing apart the last rank of mercenaries in between. As it towered above him, claws raised and outstretched to pounce, Burke stared into the savage eyes beneath the curved horns, making no attempt to flee the nemesis which had come upon him in so sudden and unpredictable a manner. He was filled by a strange feeling of serenity. If such was the means by which Fate had decreed he should meet his end, then so be it. Destiny would decide whether he and his grand project deserved to survive.

* * *

At the top of the bridge leading down, Arta and Clover paused to survey the situation below. The lip of the slope had temporarily screened the activities in the Talon camp from their view. Now in the light of multiple laser beams, they could see that the greater part of the enemy force was engaged, attacked by not just one but two Deathclaws. Arta thought she'd caught sight of the flash of a white suit amidst the dark uniformed ranks. Before she could employ her scope to look closer, Clover touched her arm.

"Look, two squads have broken away from the main group. They're making for the bottom of the bridge."

Arta could see the Talons were advancing in echelon, two lines of five making an expanding 'v' shape. They would be either side of the foot of the slipway in less than a minute.

"Shit! They're on to us! But this still looks like our best chance to escape. And they've very little cover down there."

"How'dyu want to do this?"

"I'll start picking them off, and you throw grenades."

"Check."

Raising her scope, Arta sighted at the mercenary on the farthest wing of the formation. A single shot from Walsh's powerful rifle was enough to penetrate the trooper's armour and inflict a disabling and probably fatal wound. She swung the muzzle and dropped another Talon immediately. A grenade tossed by Clover landed on the other arm of the 'v', but as the mercenaries were spread out, only two died. Responding to the threat, and the sudden loss of nearly half their number, they fired back immediately. A shower of assault rifle rounds passed close to Clover, more exposed as she'd stood up to make the throw, followed by stabbing beams of laser fire.

She gave an agonised scream. "I'm hit!"

"Get down! Take cover behind the slope!"

Clover dropped flat, and Arta quickly did likewise, wriggling across the broken surface of the bridge towards her. She could smell the sickening odour of burnt flesh. Smoke was issuing from Clover's right trouser leg. A whining came from her throat, and Arta felt moisture coming to her eyes as she imagined her companion's agony. She reached quickly for a med-x hypodermic, and plunged it in just above the knee joint. Clover meanwhile had made a blind grenade throw over the slope while hyperventilating, but the firing had stopped.

Raising her head cautiously, Arta ascertained that the troopers weren't attempting to advance further up the bridge. Then she turned her attention back to Clover's wound. The laser had vaporised the combat armour around it, leaving a circle of cauterised flesh. She recalled that when she'd suffered a similar burn in the battle at _Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast, _Jericho had simply injected a stimpak and applied a loose dressing. What made all the difference for Clover was that the nerve endings near the wound had obviously _not _been destroyed, and she was consequently suffering extreme pain. Arta could hear her muttering under her breath, "One one thousand, two one thousand …"

Trying to keep her voice calm and reassuring, she said, "They're holding their position. I can treat the wound with a stimpak. Is the med-x working yet?"

"Just barely." Clover spoke through gritted teeth.

_When you love someone, you feel her suffering almost as if it were your own. And will do almost anything to relieve it. _Almost by instinct, Arta pulled Clover close and began to kiss her neck and face, pressing her lips against her own, exploring her mouth with her tongue. At the same time, she rubbed hard at Clover's crotch area, trying everything she possibly could to distract her from the pain, pushing her body, her breasts hard against her. She knew she was succeeding when Clover began to respond with her own caresses.

"Oh Arta! Thank you so much! The pain's going now. That was like being in heaven after being in hell."

* * *

Almost every gun in the camp was being directed at the attacking Deathclaw. As it struck at Burke, multiple laser beams converged on its body which glowed white. It remained frozen in an attitude of rage, outlined in the intense heat, then suddenly and almost miraculously the contours of the huge creature dissolved and slid away to form a glowing, oozing pool of sludge.

Breathlessly Weinstein raced forward to make his report.

"Sir, we've eliminated the Deathclaws and stopped anyone else escaping from the bridge. But our own casualties have been extremely high." When Burke made no response, he ventured, "Sir, are you all right, Sir?

Burke brushed irritably at his lapels and sleeve. "I am very far from all right, commander." Weinstein saw that some of the slime from the deceased Deathclaw had left black marks on his employer's white suit.

"Erm, I expect it'll wash off, Sir?"

"It's burnt on!" Burke thundered. "I just had this suit tailored!"

Weinstein cringed at the disproportionate fury of the words. He tried to comprehend how his employer could be concerned about clothes when he'd narrowly escaped death, and the corpses of more than half his force were piled around him.

"Tailored, Sir?"

"Yes, tailored, commander! Do you even understand the difficulties involved? Well, do you?" Trembling Weinstein shook his head.

Restraining his anger with difficulty, Burke spoke with a forced calm. "Never mind. The sooner we finish this overly prolonged business, the sooner I can order another one. I want those women captured, and I want it done forthwith." As the Talon commander hesitated, Burke added with savage emphasis, "That means _now_, Weinstein."

"But Sir," the Chief of Staff protested. "After taking so many casualties from the Deathclaws and the mines, we don't have sufficient forces to take them prisoner."

"When I last counted, commander," Burke snarled, "there were only three of them! And perhaps one less now."

"It's hard to get at them in the difficult position they're in, Sir," Weinstein pleaded. "Killing them would be easy using heavy weapons, but capturing … they'd pick us off before we got close enough."

"And you will be in a difficult position, commander, if you don't obey my orders."

"Sir, I'm only trying to point out to you, Sir …" Weinstein stuttered.

"Look, let's try to think about this tactically. You can use suppression fire to make them keep their heads down. Just ensure its close enough without hitting them directly. You can even use missiles if you make sure they miss. So long as no one actually shoots them through the head or heart … we should be able to patch anything else up."

Weinstein tried to both nod and shake his head at once. "Those are excellent suggestions, Sir, but after the setbacks they've experienced, the morale of the men is very brittle. They need time to regroup and patch up the wounded. Give me just a little more time. I can recall our scouting patrols nearby, and get ready for an attack at dawn."

Burke was about to make an exasperated reply, then thought better of it. "Very well, Weinstein. We will wait until dawn. But I want no more cowardly excuses."

"No Sir. Thank you, Sir." The Talon commander let out a long breath, and withdrew, leaving Burke to his thoughts.

_I've taken too much trouble to spoil things by rushing them. A little longer won't matter. Better than going at it like a blind bull in a china shop. And a dawn attack has something traditional about it._

Burke _liked _tradition.

* * *

Yawning Clover asked, "It's been hours since Jericho left. Why haven't they attacked yet?"

"I wonder if they're waiting for daylight; when there's less chance of confusion and targets are easier to make out."

"Or they simply want to let starvation and exhaustion beat us. Whichever it is, it looks like Burke survived after all." Clover sniffed the air. "We'll find out soon. Dawn's not far off."

Arta had been keeping watch while her companion rested and recovered from her wound. She'd welcomed the time to think about the many things that had happened since she'd left the Vault, and even further back, to her childhood. Hoping that they would somehow fall into a coherent pattern that would explain her destiny; and about the person she might become. Instead she saw only fractured events, bizarre coincidences and obscure dreams, which she had convinced herself had some significant meaning.

And if it was all hollow, nothing but nonsense … what was it they fought for here? How likely was her vision for the Wasteland to come about? Did it even have greater legitimacy than Burke's? His was a harsh future certainly, but had humanity deserved anything more, the victim of its own weakness, corruption and greed? Of course Burke had left her and Clover alone to consider exactly these points.

Seeking to find some expression for her troubling thoughts, she said aloud, "What if we just give up?"

"What?" Clover brushed sleep from her eyes, regarded her seriously. "How'd'you mean, give up?"

"Surrender. Do what Burke wants. Join him." Arta met Clover's shocked look full on.

"You're joking, right?"

"No. I'm asking a legitimate question. If we fight, we'll likely die or be captured anyway. Why not avoid that? Like Jericho did."

"Act like that traitor? Or rather worse, because at least he didn't join the opposition." Clover spat over the side of the freeway. "I'd rather die."

"But would you?" Arta put a hand on her companion's shoulder. "You were Eulogy Jones bodyguard for years. Because you had little choice. And you became mine in much the same way. How would allying with Burke be any different?"

Clover thoughtfully scratched an ear. "That's not quite true about joining you. You gave me the choice to leave, remember? And isn't that what this is about in the end? Refusing to bow to oppression."

"And then being crushed anyway. Burke, for whatever reason, wants us bad. Not merely as his slaves either." Arta's look was searching. "You met him, didn't you? I bet he treated you with more respect than Eulogy ever did."

Clover gave a knowing smile. "Oh, I certainly understood what he was about. And don't think Eulogy couldn't charm the pants off any woman too. Burke's a very clever, very charming man. And that makes him all the more dangerous, all the more powerful. Once into bed with him we'd be trapped, just as much as we're trapped here. Whether it's a primrose path or not, it'd lead us down to hell in the end."

"It'd lead us somewhere at least. The one we're on right now's taking us exactly nowhere."

"You reckon so? Your mother might disagree."

"My mother?" Arta stared at Clover. "What d'you know about her?"

"Only about what she said in a dream; a dream I had after I thought I'd died."

"What did she look like?"

"I suppose exactly as I imagined your mother would look. Yes, I know it might be nothing more than my imagination working overtime after a bullet had just rebounded off my skull. But what she said made sense of a kind."

"And that was?"

"She said you might be destined to save the Wasteland … or to destroy it. And that if you joined with someone like Burke, you could become a monster that would wreak havoc on humanity."

_Clover too! It's as though my faith in my destiny is being reaffirmed. Or is it another coincidence, another cheating vision? Something which people doomed like us would like to be true?_

Arta moved the hand from Clover's shoulder, to put her arm around her. "So that's what you believe, eh? That in the course of fulfilling my noble destiny I'm gonna call down fire from heaven to destroy our enemies? Or if I surrender to Burke, I'll become like the devil himself?"

Clover shook her head. "I don't know if any of that is real. But even if it isn't, couldn't it be the expression of something that we know in our hearts is true? That we face a simple choice between right and wrong? And that there's always hope?"

Arta said softly, "If the Wasteland teaches us anything, it's that there are no simple choices. As for hope … well, I don't know about that either."

"Then forget about all that. In the end, it comes down to us. Just us. The heroes in storybooks wouldn't give up, no matter what the odds. Why should we give in before the game's over?"

Arta smiled, "You know you remind me of a storybook hero: Grognak the Barbarian. In Issue Nine, Grognak and the Sorcerer, he's besieged on a hilltop with a single companion and a multitude of enemies. And he prays for the first time to his god, Kron. _No one, not even you, will remember whether we were good men or bad, why we fought and why we died. All that matters is that two stood against many, that's what's important …_ _and if you do not listen, then to hell with you!_ And I remember someone else who died a hero, who died saving me: Billy Creel. I once heard him sing a song called _The Star-Spangled Banner_. It was supposed to be very patriotic, but it was more than that. It was about never giving up. I wish I could remember the words, but they were kind've old fashioned and difficult."

Unexpectedly Clover said, "I know them. I know the song. Aunt Aggie taught it to me; she used to accompany me on her violin. It's about the flag still being there as the dawn comes up, isn't it? Just like we're still here."

Arta said, "Can you sing it? Can you sing it now?"

"While GNR was still on the air, I liked to sing along with the music. So I can try."

Clover hummed to herself for a moment, trying to get the right key. She made a false start, hesitated. Then she looked east to where the sky was already beginning to lighten. Drawing a deep breath, she began to sing.

_Oh say can you see,_

_By the dawn's early light,_

_What so proudly we hailed,_

_At the twilight's last gleaming,_

_Whose broad stripes and bright stars,_

_Through the perilous fight,_

_O'er the ramparts we watched,_

_Was so gallantly streaming?_

_And the rockets red glare,_

_The bombs bursting in air,_

_Gave proof through the night,_

_That our flag was still there._

_Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,_

_O'er the land of the free,_

_And the home of the brave?_

By the time the song ended, the sky above the horizon had flushed a pale pink. From below came the sound of harsh military commands and the tramp of boots.

Arta said, "Clover, you're right, just like Grognak was. What's important is we haven't given up. The dawn has come up and we're still here."

* * *

The early morning light imparted a pale sheen to the silk cloth of the bandana. Manya gently stroked the soft material and, with the same reverence, pulled it aside to reveal the cold hardness of the .44 magnum. She looked up at the haggard face of the man who had handed them to her.

"I will keep these and show them to Maggie," she said quietly.

"Do that." The agony in the rasping tones of the speaker could not be concealed. "And … tell her he died well. Tell her Billy was …" his voice was almost broken by a half-sob "a fucking hero, like in a comic book. Tell her anything you damn well like. Tell her fucking Santa Claus is coming to town."

Manya listened to the torrent of words with dignity, then said with a calmness that still acknowledged the speaker's pain. "I will tell her he died well, and helping his friends."

Jericho had already begun to turn away. Manya watched him go, noting that the confident erect stride had gone. As he shambled away from her, he looked like a man on whom the burden of his years had fallen suddenly. His body, hunched like a cripple's, was bowed as though by a heavy weight.

She sighed, and looked for a minute more at the distinctive skyline of Megaton, shown up starkly against the growing light of dawn. Then she opened the door of the blue bus.

"Nathan, we need to talk about little Maggie."

* * *

Weinstein drew himself up to his full height as he addressed the massed ranks of the Talons, noting with approval that each section was properly equipped and ready in accordance with previous instructions.

"I will now outline our plan of attack. To Alpha squad will fall the important task of disabling the enemy's ability to shoot. For this purpose you must use single shot firearms to damage their weapons, or failing that their hands or arms. Make sure of your targets before firing.

Beta squad has the equally vital role of providing suppression fire. As you will be the only section equipped with rockets and automatics, it goes without saying that great care must be taken that the fire is directed close but not too close. You will continue to provide cover until we're established at the top of the bridge.

Once Alpha squad has succeeded, and the targets can no longer fire back, Delta squad will move in to melee. Your swords are for parrying only; truncheon and shock gloves can be used offensively.

All other sections will give support to Beta and Delta squads, through suppressing fire or melee as appropriate."

Weinstein paused for effect. "I want to make this quite clear. There is to be _no_ unauthorised lethal fire directed at the enemy. The reputation of Talon company is at stake. Should the targets be killed, the punishment for the entire force will be one of decimation." A muttering spread amongst the ranks. Weinstein raised his voice. "The only exception will be the firer of the fatal shot who will be executed by whatever method is considered most deserving by the comrades he has let down." He paused again while the muttering subsided. "However I expect you to behave like the professionals I know you to be. Now go to your starting positions, and may fortune go with you."

As he watched his men moving according to his commands, Weinstein thought, _Well, I've done my best. I hope it'll be enough. _In his own mind, he wasn't convinced. _We're fighting with one hand tied behind our backs. And that's not our way. _Talon mercenaries were realists. If the plan appeared to be working, they would follow it. But if following orders seemed tantamount to suicide, the temptation to fire back might be too much. Even with the threat of the ancient penalty of decimation and a dishonourable execution hanging over their heads.

The Talon high command had insisted that the relationship with Tenpenny Towers should be maintained at all costs._ But Burke expects too much. He forgets we're just men. Men who like everyone else have only one life to lose._

* * *

"I think this is it," Arta said. "There's a lot of activity down there. And they look like they're massing to attack."

"Then we need to be at the top of the bridge slope," Clover said. "Just where that big crack in the road provides some extra cover. Don't forget to tank up on combat drugs while you've got the chance."

_Taking a heavy cocktail of chems for the second time in half a day can't be good, _Arta thought. _But addiction's the least of our concerns right now. _

"You know I wonder what their plan is," she said. "If it's no improvement on the Raiders', then they'll have a lot of difficulty even with better armour, weapons and training. That is, if they're still trying to capture us."

"They will be so long as Burke's still alive. This is where we find out."

They crouched in the depression, aiming their weapons down the steep slope of the partially collapsed bridge. _It's like we're on top of a hill ridge, _Arta thought. _Throughout history that's usually given a big advantage to the defenders._

A sudden whooshing sound and a smoke trail heralded the arrival of the first rocket.

"Get down!" Clover shouted.

They lay flat as a blast of hot gasses swept over their heads. It was followed several seconds later by another explosion. And another

"Shit! Are they trying to kill us after all?" Arta gasped, pressing herself as far down into the cracked pavement as she could manage.

"I don't think so! They should be able to burst them right on top of us. I think they're just trying to keep our heads down."

"And they're succeeding! What can we do?" _The instinct to take cover when being shelled like this seems almost impossible to overcome. The rockets' red glare … now I know what it feels like._

"They'll have to stop firing missiles at some point. Such as when their own troops get too close. We've gotta be ready for that moment." Clover had to shout above the din of successive explosions.

"But they'll be too near to us!"

"Just get ready to pitch grenades real fast. I'll spray on full auto."

Intermittent between the multiple detonations was the constant chatter of automatic fire.

"They're firing bullets overhead too!"

Clover squinted upwards. "Not _right _overhead. The angle when firing from below makes that difficult. We'll be able to bob up enough to shoot or throw. Hang in there."

A missile exploded. Several seconds passed; and there was no following detonation.

Clover said, "Now! Rise up!"

They rose into a half-crouch, bullets whistling so close above their heads as to threaten to shave their hair; the golden light of sunrise was on their faces.

Less than ten yards away, a vanguard of black-clad troops was advancing in the hunched stances of professional soldiers, their rifles and pistols held ready. They were close enough for Arta to see their faces and imagine the tense expressions. Despite professionalism, there was a split second in which both sides hesitated, surprised by the proximity of the encounter. Then Arta pitched her already half-cooked grenade with a wrist flick of which Babe Ruth would've been proud, and Clover emptied her assault rifle into the front rank. Simultaneously two of the troopers near the back of the squad took careful aim with their hunting rifles.

The results were dramatic. The bullets tattooed a row of bloody holes across the chests of the foremost mercenaries. Then the grenade exploded directly in the middle of the squad, bringing with it hideous screams as the rest were torn apart by shrapnel. But at the same time Clover's rifle flew from her hands, landing just behind her on the slope.

Behind the butchered vanguard, a line of supporting troops trailed back to the bottom of the bridge. It was towards these that Arta and Clover hurled their following grenades. The Talons were more spread out than the Raiders had been, but some inevitably found their mark, adding to the general carnage. Arta suppressed the urge to vomit, as she saw a mercenary dragging himself along with one arm and one leg remaining.

Just as she was thinking the Talons might be defeated almost as easily as the Raiders, another missile screeched in, and they were again forced into cover.

Clover groped for her assault rifle. "Fuck, it looks badly damaged. I doubt it'll fire."

Arta said, "Take mine for now. I've still got some grenades left."

"We're getting short though, aren't we? And I think they were deliberately aiming at wrecking my gun. We can't afford to let them do that again."

"Then we can't let them get that close. We'll have to fall back to our secondary position."

"I think you're right. But I'm afraid we've not killed enough of them on the way up."

"We did the best we could. I'm gonna throw one more grenade blind; hopefully it'll cover our retreat."

"Me too."

As the missiles continued to fly, they began to wriggle backwards towards the freeway. When they judged it safe enough, they regained their feet, and stooping low, made for the section of the road they'd concluded was the most defensible. In order to cross between slipway and freeway it was either necessary to jump across the gaping hole left by the cracking of the connecting road, or to climb the sidewall and leap across the void where the two bridges angled together. Any attackers would be much hampered and exposed to fire while doing so.

To gain the maximum defensive advantage, the two women sheltered behind the low wall formed by the freeway's central reservation. From here they would be able to cover the area they'd just vacated. There was a period of frenetic activity as they prepared for the next onslaught, checking weapons and ranges, readying grenades and magazines. With the combat drugs still zinging through their blood, they spoke tersely and to the point.

Arta said, "We've gotta concentrate fire on anyone trying to cross between the bridges; we don't want to let them get any closer or outflank us."

"Affirmative. But try to save the grenades. There's only a few left, and we need to make them all count."

"Yes. And we should avoid hitting the same targets. I'll shoot at anyone trying to jump the gap; you watch for them climbing the sidewall."

A silence fell between them. _This interval between the attacks is the worst, _Arta thought_. Not knowing when and how the final assault will begin. Wondering whether we've got the skill and courage to make our tactical edge count against their numbers. _A feeling of dread cooled the sweat on her palms and forehead. She wanted to find words of comfort for Clover, and to receive them. But to lose concentration and alertness could be fatal.

There was activity on the connecting bridge; heads peering over the apex of the slope. Then the beginning of a cautious advance.

"Let them get closer."

Now the movement had a greater confidence to it, a definite flow of bodies forward. _They still think that crossing will be easy; we're about to disillusion them._

"Steady ... steady ... fire!"

The first Talon to try leaping the gap received a .308 bullet between his teeth that shattered the back of his skull. The second was wounded in the groin, panicked and fell screaming into the void, taking the third down with him. Clover's assault rounds raked the mercenaries milling behind them. Those not immediately cut down tried futilely to find cover instead of firing back.

As more and more Talons moved into the killing zone, they increasingly tried to adopt prone or crouching firing stances. But the targets offered were difficult. Clover was running and gunning along the central reservation, bullets streaming from the muzzle of her assault rifle. Arta was bobbing up and down like a squirrel to unleash one deadly shot after another.

"I think we've foxed them!" The Vault woman gave a gleeful shout as another bullet sped harmlessly past.

"For the moment," Clover agreed, breathing hard. "Until they figure out some other way to do things."

Apparently realising they had reached an impasse, those Talons lucky enough to survive the massacre were backing off down the slope.

_Round Two to us._

* * *

In his improvised command post halfway up the bridge, Weinstein listened to the battle reports with a grim face. Despite all the suppressing fire, they hadn't been able to avoid heavy casualties mounting the bridge, especially from grenades. Now the enemy had found another way to channel them, while remaining even harder to hit than before. Almost the nightmare scenario: those damn rules of engagement coming back to bite them again! He had to admit though, that Burke's interest in the women had some justification. They were uncommonly smart and courageous. He would have to dig deep into his experience to pull his men through this one.

* * *

"Smoke!" Clover exclaimed. "They're throwing smoke grenades!"

Plumes of vapour shot through with amber were rising towards the gold-flecked clouds overhead, drifting forward in a swirling mass to blanket the bridges in a wall of grey.

"Listen!" She held up a hand. The whistling of the wind across the desolate freeway mingled with the jingling sound of advancing soldiery.

"Throw the grenades!" Arta was pitching her aim high enough to reach the approaching cloud. A flare within was followed by screams. Figures emerged from the concealing smoke on the right flank and began to shoot.

"Eat lead motherfuckers!" Clover dived over the central reservation, rolled and regained her feet to fire a long burst. Several smoke-shrouded figures fell; others fired a volley of single shots in reply.

"Shit!" Blood spurted from Clover's left arm and side.

"Clover!" Arta desperately hurled the last of her grenades, then dashed to her companion's side.

Biting her lip, Clover managed to hiss through her teeth. "I'll be all right. The drugs are taking off the worst. Give me a couple of stims and your smg." In an undertone, she added, "I can't use my left arm right now."

Arta thrust the machine pistol into her hand, receiving the assault rifle in exchange. Quickly reloading, she peeked above the low wall and fired a series of controlled bursts, each time dropping a man. But troops were appearing on both sides of the freeway, and the wall could provide cover from only one direction. Clover downed three on the left side with precise shots from the submachine gun; but she couldn't reload on her own, and there were too many enemies now.

_We can't keep this up much longer._

"Throw down your gun, Clover."

"What?"

"We can't win this way. Throw it away and make sure they see you do it." Suiting her actions to her words, Arta flung away the assault rifle in plain view of the enemy.

Clover hesitated. "We're not giving up?"

"No. If they're gonna shoot us, they're gonna. But I don't think they want to. Not if there's some other way." Arta drew her _shishkebab._ The Talons were still advancing but no longer firing.

"Got ya." Clover dropped her own weapon, and unsheathed a Chinese sword.

They retreated until the ripped edge of the freeway with its heart stopping drop was at their backs. In front of them, the mercenaries hesitated, then fanned out. Their weapons were still raised and holding on their targets, but they seemed to be waiting for some word of command.

A minute passed and no one moved or spoke. Then another squad of mercenaries marched out of the clearing smoke. Each was armed with a truncheon or a power fist, and wore a sheathed sword. Just behind them walked a middle-aged man in an immaculately clean and well-pressed uniform, decorated at the breast with a star and several rows of medals. His hair was shot through with grey, his expression world-weary.

_The Talon commander presumably, _Arta thought. _Not quite how I imagined him to be. He looks tired. Maybe he's seen too many of his men killed. But he's stuck to his task. I guess we've got him to thank that we're still alive._

On a sudden impulse, she brought her sword upwards and facing outwards in a salute towards the man. He looked momentarily surprised, then inclined his head in a half-bow.

_Mutual respect. It's a typical human response. Maybe there's still hope for us as a species._

Having performed this gesture, the man gave a series of hand-signals. The mercenaries with firearms lowered them; those with swords unsheathed them and advanced slowly.

_We've got one slight advantage left. Another hole in the freeway narrows our front so that only two can attack us there. And the central reservation makes it harder for them to outflank us to the left. Harder but not impossible._

As though reading Arta's mind, Clover said, "I'll hold them in front. Watch for any getting round the side."

_Clover wants to take the main burden of the attack on herself. Not surprising, as she's got years more training in melee than me. But she's still recovering from her wounds._

Arta said with emotion, "This looks like the endgame."

Their eyes met only for a moment, but with an intensity that took the place of many words. "Yeah, there's nowhere left to go. If we don't meet again in this world …"

"Then maybe we'll meet in another." Arta thought of Amata's words - if it had really been Amata in the dream - and briefly touched her sword to Clover's. "We may not be able to live forever, in whatever world we're in. But we're gonna try damn hard to make them remember us forever in this one. Victory ... or death!"

* * *

Clover prepared to meet the onset of the enemy knowing she had to take the offensive. They were going to try and parry with their swords and strike with their clubs or shock gloves. She needed to get through their guard before they could weary her and make their extra weapons count. As the first two swordsman engaged with her, she made a quick feint at the face of one, lashed out with her forward leg to trip him, then executed a lightning thrust into the groin. Her opponent shrieked as blood pumped from his loins. Clover blocked his comrade's baton swing with her half-good arm, and risking a sword slash, moved in close to slide her blade into his side.

Stepping back to let him collapse, she risked a glance towards Arta. Two mercenaries had tried to jump the central reservation. The Vault woman had ignited her sword and slashed at the leg of one, setting him alight, then side-stepped to meet the other with the point of her blade, using his own momentum to plunge it hard into his stomach. There was a horrible sizzling and smell of burning. Clover wondered what effect the agonised shrieks of those dying might have on the Talons' morale. They would certainly haunt her own dreams.

_Not the best technical finesse, but smart enough tactics. Hopefully they won't figure straight away that I'm the more experienced fighter. If we can stop them encircling us, we can hold them. But can we win?_

Back and forth, the stop and go giddy motion of the fight continued. Arta had lost count of the times they'd driven back their enemies, only for them to be replaced by fresh foes. She'd taken several blows from truncheons but none that were seriously disabling. Meanwhile Clover seemed to be driving her body past the point of exhaustion, her sword a whirlwind despite her previous injuries being added to; burns on her armoured jacket showed the impact of shock fists. Arta could hear the harsh rasping of her breath, and wondered how much longer she could possibly last.

The end came suddenly though not unexpectedly. Time and time again Clover had risked herself to make another kill, plunging her sword deep into her enemy's vitals. This time, as she did so, a Talon swung his baton connecting with the back of her head. She gave a groan, and sank to the ground.

_She'll be okay, _Arta thought shakily_. Clover never dies when her head's hit._

The Talons wasted no time taking advantage of the breached defence. Ignoring Clover's fallen body, they moved to surround Arta. She stepped back to the very edge of the precipice, restricting her opponents to a semi-circle of blades.

Arta looked round at each of them, noting there signs of apprehension and uncertainty. Many of their comrades had fallen and they were not anxious to join them in death. But though a great number had died, too many still remained. _Grognak was in this situation so often, and always won, _she thought_. But in reality even a master swordsman can't defeat so many opponents at once and on his own._

She couldn't live up to the legend. But she could still act as though she was one.

She drew her sword backwards and to the side of her head in the pose favoured by her comic book hero. She could sense those around her waiting intently to see what she would say or do next.

"My name is Artemesia Wendell," she said. "And I am the Angel of Death."

At the words, something stirred deep within her soul, as though she had discovered a hidden source of understanding, touched the mind of a being far older than herself; one whose wisdom spanned countless centuries of time. With that knowledge came a feeling of great sorrow, not for her own fate, but for that of all living things; for the mortality that must bring each one to its appointed end. The sadness of one for whom the bringing of death was an essential part of her being, who unswayed by pity or remorse must kill again and again. And yet still she sorrowed and yearned to be free of that eternal burden.

In her hands the sword blazed up in a welter of fire, seeming as it had in the dream to be part of herself. Her feet began to move as though in time with the rhythm of a dance she had always known, a dance in which every step was destined to end in the taking of a life. Tears flowed from her eyes, weeping for those she must kill, weeping because she was alone.

* * *

Weinstein stood appalled, almost unable to accept the evidence of his own eyes, to believe what had just happened. The suddenness of it had been terrifying. One moment the young woman had been standing, holding her weapon in a defiant and melodramatic pose, as though she had no more idea how to fight than a child with a toy sword. The next she had moved to attack with blinding speed and deadly efficiency, wielding her blade with the assurance and precision of a sword master. Every slash and thrust of the burning weapon seemed to cost the life of one of his soldiers. In less time than it would have taken to recount the fight, the living, breathing men surrounding her had been reduced to a ring of twitching, bloodied corpses. She stood calmly amidst the carnage, and not a drop of the blood that spattered her boots and clothing or steamed from the blade of her sword was her own. Her face, seen through the slight translucence of the visor, had an ethereal quality, as though the world and its concerns no longer troubled her.

Weinstein sensed the fear spreading amongst the last remnant of his men; the whispering, the nervous shuffling. _An army is defeated when it loses its will to fight, when it no longer believes it can overcome its enemy. _In the minds of those around him, the foe before them had taken on the aura of invincibility, and almost anything was to be preferred than facing her in battle. The rearward movement of his force was becoming apparent, beginning around the edges with men drifting away. It would soon gather momentum to become a headlong panicked flight, and no power he possessed could prevent it. The humiliating reality was that the Talon's finest had been beaten by a girl barely turned woman.

While it was still possible, he addressed the survivors of Alpha Squad. "You men, come with me." There was perhaps one last chance to save the reputation of Talon Company.

* * *

Burke witnessed the rout from his position on the high ground. He noted dispassionately that, in the extremes of fear, some mercenaries were jumping prematurely from the bridge, risking a perilous leap towards the Mirelurk's pool. Those that avoided breaking their necks in the shallows were dragged under by the remaining mutant crustaceans.

Only one group showed any discipline in the retreat. Burke waited hands on hips, as Weinstein's depleted squad made its way disconsolately towards him. The grey-haired Talon Commander's face was wan, the signs of desperation barely concealed.

"Sir, I must report to you ..."

Weinstein managed to half-draw his handgun before the paralysing dart struck him just below the neck. A faint gurgle issued from his throat as the virulent poison began its work.

The dart thrower and the ten-millimetre pistol were in Burke's hands; the rest of Alpha Squad died swiftly and in near silence. With a contemptuous snort, he began to reload. Weinstein had been far too predictable, which made him a lousy commander, though an adequate chief of staff. Nevertheless he and his men had played their bit parts in this little drama well enough.

He holstered his weapons and stooped to pick up a shiny metal case. It was time to take the stage himself.

* * *

Vultures riding the early morning thermals above Old Olney glided down to feast on the dead or near-dead. Croaking and quarrelling over the right to pluck out the corpses' eyes, they hopped smartly out of the way of the man in white and the woman in black, as they walked across the bridge towards one another. Then they continued to fight and feed as before. The talk of humans was no concern of theirs.

"To arrange this meeting has been a little more ... complicated." Burke leaned easily on the side of the bridge wall, his gaze apparently on the eastern hills yellow with sunlight. "For that I must take a share of the blame. I'm not accustomed to disappointment, and may have been ... _over zealous _... in soliciting your attention."

Arta stared in the same direction. She had removed her helmet, allowing the wind to ruffle her dark hair. She said nothing.

Burke continued unheeding. "Nevertheless, my dear, _you _haven't fallen short of my expectations. Indeed quite the opposite." He made a grand gesture taking in the burnt, bullet-ridden and mutilated corpses. "What a magnificent achievement!"

Arta showed no reaction to the praise, other than to follow the general direction of Burke's glance.

A fervid enthusiasm in his voice, he went on: "You have truly shown yourself worthy of all my care and attention. For I have, as you must have realised, taken very great pains to preserve your life. And, of course, that of the estimable Clover." Observing the tears on Arta's cheeks, he added, "With, it would seem, rather less success, alas. Such a pity. I envisaged us all returning to Tenpenny Towers, a threesome, as it were." With a short laugh. "Perhaps not quite _that _kind of threesome."

Arta still made no response either to Burke's sympathy or humour, but he seemed untroubled, and laid an almost kindly hand on her shoulder.

"The sad demise of Clover should serve as a lesson. That despite the undoubted waste of her undeniable talents, such setbacks should not deter us in the course of our greater and most glorious goal, one that I'm sure you share. I myself have no regrets about the sacrifices that I've made; the loss of Walsh was regrettable but one that I'm prepared to pass over."

"But still ..." Burke adopted a tone of slight remonstrance, as though addressing an erring pupil. "We must distinguish between justified grief for our friends, and unnecessary sentimental attachment to persons of no importance. Such as your quite unwarranted concern for the citizens of Megaton. Or, as we see here, the sacrifice of a mere handful of pawns along the wayside."

For the first time Burke's words seemed to register with Arta, provoking her into stumbling speech. "Sacrifice? Pawns? Do you play chess?"

"The Game of Kings!" Burke enthused. "No ... more than that, the Game of the Gods! For in what other contest of such complexity is victory achieved purely by the exercise of skill? And who else but the gods could so manipulate reality to make each desired outcome entirely devoid of the vagaries of chance? In such a way should the fate of the world be decided."

A tremor in her voice, Arta said, "I know who you are!"

Burke paused in surprise. Then, recovering himself, he said heartily, "Of course! Like knows like. Men and women of our calibre transcend so far the common mass of humanity that there is a unique empathy between us."

Arta continued as though rapt. "I have been so alone without you." She reached out to grasp Burke's arm. "When I was lost in Outer Darkness, in exile amongst the Fallen, you came to me. You brought me back to the light of my Father's Presence."

Burke frowned, trying to make sense of Arta's apparent ramblings. "I know you miss your home and family. But you'll have a more than comfortable new place to live, with a fine view of the Wasteland. I will be like a father to you. You will never need to be alone or lost in the dark again."

Suddenly shouting, Arta gripped Burke's arm fiercely. "But you promised me freedom!"

Lowering his voice in an attempt to calm her, Burke said soothingly, "And you will have it. You'll be able to do anything, have anything your heart desires. Subject naturally to my overall command, and the necessities of our goals."

Still maintaining her half of the disconnected conversation, Arta resumed speaking in a more subdued tone. "I spent aeons in your service. I fulfilled all my Father's duties. Yet still I remained alone and in servitude."

Clearly completely baffled by the turn of the conversation and Arta's odd expressions, Burke said impatiently, "My dear, you're not making a lot of sense. I fear you've become overwrought at the death of your friend. Quite understandable really. Come; let us return together to Tenpenny Towers. We will walk on the balcony in the twilight, drink chilled wine, and speak as the words come idly to mind. There you can at last have peace."

As though again provoked by Burke's words, Arta shouted angrily, "How can I be at peace? I bring not peace but the Sword! While I carry the burden of it I can never find rest!"

Burke sought desperately to divert Arta's attention. "Look, I've brought you a present, a token of my esteem. No, nothing so vulgar as clothes or jewellery, though they would enhance your already extraordinary beauty. This is a far worthier gift, the gift of Power."

Burke reached down to pick up the small metal suitcase. He set it down carefully on top of the wall, then released the clasps holding it shut. The top half opened upwards to reveal a metal control panel, the same size as the case bottom. Arta stepped forward to curiously lean over Burke's shoulder. There were several inset switches and dials, and one prominent red button.

Pleased that he seemed to have finally gained her interest, Burke said, "You've no doubt already guessed its function. The detonator for the Fusion Pulse Charge. Before embarking on the main part of his mission, Sam Walsh secretly attached it to the bomb in Megaton, for him a very simple task." He adjusted a dial, flicked a switch. "The device is now active. It requires only the pressure of your thumb on this button to erase Megaton from the face of the earth." Pointing to the west, he added, "The mushroom cloud may just be visible from behind the hills. However to enjoy the spectacle fully, I would strongly recommend returning to Tenpenny Towers. From there the view of the rising fireball will be magnificent." He resettled his glasses on the bridge of his nose, a curiously civilised gesture. "Come let us go at once."

Arta stared at the button. "It is an Abomination."

"Pardon me?"

"An Abomination out of the Dark Years when humanity sought its own destruction." Arta wrung her hands as though suffering an intense inner agony. "I remember the white heat, brighter and hotter than a thousand suns, the invisible clouds of death, the famine, the pestilence. The sword so heavy in my hands as I walked amongst them. All those dead ... men, women and children, so many I could no longer count them. My soul wept as they came to me."

Carefully Burke began, "You clearly have a vivid imagination, but you should not believe ..."

"Never again!" With a sudden movement, Arta seized hold of the control panel and flung it from the bridge. "It must never happen again!"

Burke watched the case spinning and tumbling through the air, until it fell with a splash into the shallow part of the lake. There was a hint of alarm as well as anger in his voice as he took a step away from Arta. "In its current state, the shock of falling might easily set it off!" He looked to the southwest. There was no flash in the clouds, no earthquake, no distant rumble. Nothing. He let out a long breath. "Well it would've been disappointing not to have had a better view."

Arta showed no similar signs of relief, rather her tone and manner grew more excitable. "I will no longer be an instrument of vengeance or salvation. Henceforth I serve no master, even if I must remain alone forever."

Raising his hands placatingly, Burke said, "Remember you're not alone now. Try to relax and take a deep breath. I'm sure you'll feel much better when ..."

Arta laid her hand on her sword hilt, "Depart from me, Unclean Spirit!"

"I see you're not at all well." With the air of one finally losing patience, Burke reached into his pocket and produced the dart thrower. "And it pains me to do this ... although not nearly as much as it will you."

Arta looked at the device with utter contempt. "You would threaten _me _with such pathetic toys?"

"I fear that I'm about to do more than threaten." Burke aimed the weapon at her. "If you will not listen to reason, then I must employ other methods." He pressed the trigger. There was an audible click, and nothing else happened.

Burke's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Impossible!" He pressed the trigger repeatedly. The result was the same.

Arta began to laugh. "Is this all your poor mortal frame can muster? Have you also been cast down from on high?" She drew her sword, holding it up so that flames ran up the blade, and her voice hardened. "Leave now, or I will scorch your frail body with the fire of my wrath, and send your houseless spirit wailing into the Void."

Cursing Burke abandoned the attempt to fire the dart gun and, dropping it, reached for his silenced pistol. As he did so, Arta swung her _shishkebab _to strike if from his fist. With a scream, Burke held the burning hand up in front of his face, the fingers clutching claw-like. Backing away towards the edge of the bridge, he teetered for a moment, still aflame, then leapt off with an echoing cry and was gone.

* * *

*Burke's means of locating a cloaked target was presumably similar to Eddy's sensor perk in _New Vegas_ which allows you to see invisible Nightkin. As for the Dart Gun, someone please explain to me how it only paralyses the legs? (Shrugs) but its in the game and is a pretty effective way of stopping a Deathclaw so ...

Kron = Krom and Grognak = _Conan the Barbarian_. His speech comes near the end of the original film starring dear old Arnie.

_Decimation_: the Roman method of punishing a whole army by drawing lots and executing every tenth man will be familiar to fans of _New Vegas_ and Caesar's Legion.

_Rise up_: For Clover, a completely unconscious echo of the command issued to British Troops on the ridge at the Battle of Waterloo.

Lest you should doubt, Jericho could easily reach Megaton from Old Olney in the course of a night. I checked and it took five hours (game time not real time!) without fast travelling.

_Cooked grenade_: i.e where the timer has been allowed to run down prior to throwing to reduce the chance of the enemy avoiding/returning it. Risky!

_Babe Ruth_: He's about the only baseball player I've heard of, but I believe he began his career as a pitcher.

_I bring not peace but the Sword:_ Jesus' own words in Mathew 10, rather contrary to his 'meek and mild' image

This chapter notwithstanding, as far as I'm concerned its an open question whether the supernatural aspect of the story is real. In my own mind, there's nothing that can't be explained as coincidence or self-belief or crazy dreams. Of course any sharp-eyed readers who think they've noticed any different should feel free to point it out. And don't forget any supposedly miraculous 'predictions' are based on game events that haven't yet happened in this story (e.g. the events in the Water Purifier).*


	34. The Legend Begins

Ch 34 The Legend Begins

_Forgive me father! Do not cast me back into the Abyss! Father why have you forsaken me?_

Arta woke naked in semi-darkness. Her skin was hot as from the touch of fire, and the heat seemed to flush throughout her body, racking it with pain. She could feel the sweat pouring in rivulets from her bare skin. Her mind was filled with an agonised confusion of thoughts. Shadows stretched upwards around her like fiends ready to pounce. She cringed like an abandoned child.

_What horrible place is this?_ _Why am I here? _The heat continued to surge through her blood as though it were about to boil. _It's like some kind of hell. Please god won't someone help me!_

Tremulously, she called, "Is anyone there? Please, don't leave me all alone!" Her voice was muffled, as though she was within a small, confined space.

"Arta?" The answering voice was the one she had longed above all to hear. "Is it the fever again? Don't worry, I'm here!" A cool wet cloth was laid on her forehead, soothing her brow like the touch of an angel. But the real balm was the smell and feel of the person bending over her.

"Clover? Clover, are you really here?"

"Yes, yes, I am, Arta dear!" A tear trickled down Clover's dirt-stained face, and Arta felt the softness off her loose blonde hair falling forward as she inclined her head to kiss her on the cheek.

The feverish heat subsided, to be replaced by an ache within her very bones, a yearning, all-consuming need.

"I … I feel so … so sick. I want … I must have some …"

"I know what you want, Arta. But you can't have it. It'll make you sicker, and in the end, you'll crave it more."

"Please, please give it to me! Just a little, please!"

"No, I can't. I can't because I want you to get better. I think you're nearly through the worst of it now. And I'm gonna help you."

Arta felt Clover slip next to her on the bed she was lying on, sensed her swiftly removing her undergarments, then the gentle touch of her skin, breasts rubbing lightly against her back.

"Look, feel me, I'm right here for you. Just let me make you feel good and forget everything else."

Clover began to dust kisses on Arta's neck just beneath her ear, groping with one hand to caress her left nipple, letting the other stroke the cleft of her buttocks. While she worked to turn Arta onto her back, the kisses on her throat became passionately intense, and she arched her back to push her breasts and vulva insistently against the Vault woman's, as though she were trying to merge their bodies together, to share in her agony. Arta clung to her like a drowning woman, increasing the passionate friction between them, willing the desperate need of addiction to be translated into the hunger of sexual desire. Clover's mouth tugged at her nipples, tenderly then with progressive roughness, the sweet pleasure and the sweeter pain. Long, elegant fingers stroked artfully across her sensitive zone, followed by the softness of lips and the fierce, hot lash of tongue. The two sensations seemed to become one as her body responded, joining together in the shuddering throes of orgasm, purged by the white flare of ecstasy in her mind.

* * *

Megaton's simmering pot of rumours had come close to boiling over. Usually more inclined to lend an ear to the kind of scandalous goings on disseminated by Jenny Stahl or Lucy West, the worthies of the town's gossip circle had been lately forced to swallow a much more alarming digest of reportage. To begin with, the complete disappearance of GNR from the airwaves had stoked fears of a renewed Supermutant offensive in Megaton's direction. Then Jericho's return with news of the death of Billy Creel, and his subsequent failure to resume his duties as deputy, heightened the apprehension that the town's defences would be unable to cope with such an attack.

These fresh fears were set against the background of an ongoing piece of hearsay, oft ridiculed in public but stubbornly refusing to go away, that someone was trying to set off the bomb at Megaton's heart. Despite assurances from Confessor Cromwell that "the people of the Wastes need fear nothing from Atom's Glow", many citizens demanded vociferously that it be should be removed. The Church of Atom denounced this as heresy, and promised to protect the bomb with their lives. Before any kind of violence could erupt, Sheriff Simms managed to temporarily defuse the situation by pointing out the dangers of a removal, while at the same time promising to make greater efforts to render the device inert.

As if all this were not enough, another even more extraordinary tale was stirring up the already turbulent waters of speculation, its origins shrouded in obscurity. Some claimed it was nothing more than the demented ranting of a crazy hobo, others the muttered dying words of a mercenary or Raider. The more credulous and salaciously minded were inclined towards the improbable theory that it had been uttered by one of Nova's whores' clients during the throes of sexual ecstasy.

Whatever its provenance, the story told of a great battle fought in the Wasteland. A mysterious personage known as the Angel of Death had single-handedly defeated a huge force of mercenaries or, in some versions, Raiders, wiping them out to the last man. To further stretch the bounds of credibility, the Angel of Death was said to have superhuman powers, and could vanish and reappear at will, summon Wasteland creatures to her aid and blast her enemies with fire or lightning.

It might easily have been dismissed as one of the wilder Wasteland tales had there not been at least some corroboration from later accounts. A scavenger, acknowledged by all who heard her to be as sane and lucid as could be expected from someone of her profession, testified that she had seen the bodies of Talon mercenaries and Raiders piled in heaps near Old Olney, along with the corpses of Mirelurks and Deathclaws. Then a distinguished and grey-bearded hunter claimed to have witnessed a meeting of several Raider clans in the old scrap yard north of the river. The apparent object of this near unique convocation was the worship of a semi-divine leader they called the Angel of Death.

Confusion spread throughout Megaton. Was this latest Wasteland Legend someone to be welcomed and celebrated, or a scourge to be feared? In response to these concerns, Sheriff Simms proposed forming a militia to help restore the town's diminished defences. After a night and a day, the only name on the list of volunteers pinned to his door was that of Old Nathan, and this was almost immediately crossed out at Manya's request.

In typical fashion the citizens of the town continued about their daily business, hoping that by keeping their heads down, the danger, if it existed, would pass them by.

* * *

When Arta woke again it was to the comforting glow of artificial light, and the even more reassuring feeling of Clover sleeping peacefully beside her. The fever had gone, and much of the horrible craving with it.

She gradually took in more of her surroundings. She and Clover were lying together on a soft, clean naval cot. An electric lamp provided the somewhat feeble illumination in the tiny chamber. There was a table with an assortment of junk on it, some metal shelves and a single, sealed door. Something about the windowless simplicity of the room reminded her of the Vault.

She felt Clover stir, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. The blonde instantly opened one violet blue eye, followed by the other.

"Arta, you're awake! You look so much better!"

"I feel much better, but all the more for seeing you!" Arta tenderly nuzzled Clover's face, kissing her on the mouth. "I thought you were dead. I thought I was dead too."

"No, we're both still alive, though by what miracle I don't know." Clover's eyes had such joy in them, that for some time Arta could focus on nothing else, could do nothing but press herself against living, warm flesh. But in the end she couldn't resist the questions flooding into her mind.

"Where are we? Are we underground?"

"Yes, and we're safe, more or less. We're in a drainage chamber beneath the hills east of Old Olney."

"How did we get here?"

Clover affectionately tweaked Arta's nose. "You brought us here, or rather your pipboy did. In one of your more lucid moments, you told me about a signal tower, and a distress message that you'd picked up. I used it to home in on this place."

_"In one of my more lucid moments?"_

Clover sighed. "When I found you, you were ranting and raving. You'd obviously taken more combat drugs than you could cope with. You were in serious withdrawal. The fever was just one of the symptoms."

Against the background of the comfort Clover's presence provided, Arta was still aware of a faint edge of pain, as though electric currents were pulsing through her limbs. The feeling receded and grew again unpredictably.

"I … yes, I _do_ feel strange." She tried to piece together her incomplete and confused memories. "I remember you being hit and falling. Then I was surrounded by Talons, fighting them with my sword. And after that …" She shook her head. "How did I … how did _we _get away?"

Clover looked at her with concern. "Memory loss could be another side-effect. You don't remember … talking to Burke."

"I'm not sure … it's all muddled, like a half-forgotten dream. Now that I think about it, I remember throwing something from the bridge, something important that belonged to Burke. And then … he fell …"

"Really? Well I'll tell you what I saw and heard when I came to. The only Talons around me were dead or dying … I suppose you must've killed them. I heard the two of you talking nearby. You began shouting and then I heard Burke give a kind of long wailing scream.

I staggered to my feet, and you were standing on the edge of the bridge with your sword drawn. There was no sign of Burke. You were sweating and babbling to yourself, and I couldn't make much sense out of it."

Shivering Arta said, "What was I saying?"

Clover paused, before continuing with reluctance. "It seemed like you thought you were talking to your father, asking him to forgive you. And saying something about not wanting to return to the darkness, or the Pit; some nonsense like that."

Arta said, "That doesn't sound entirely nonsensical because …"

"Let's not talk about such things now." Clover looked away for a moment. "When I asked where we should go, you seemed to partly snap out of it, and told me about this place. But getting you here would've been difficult if I hadn't happened to run into a scavenger. We carried you on her brahmin, then we had to lower you down here on a rope."

Arta thought back carefully. "Yes, I remember approaching the tower with Jericho. But Talons were using the radio so …"

Clover nodded. "And they still were, two of them. But as soon as they realised who we were they surrendered immediately." She jerked a thumb. "They're tied up in the other room. I figured you wouldn't want me to kill them."

"You figured right. They might provide us with useful information at the very least. So, apart from them and the scavenger, no one else knows we're here?"

"Not yet, but I asked her to see if she could get hold of a trader with medical supplies, or a Wasteland doctor, and ask them to come here. You may still need some help with those nasty addictions." She pointed to her own arm. "And I've got a few pieces of lead to remove."

"Oh god, I remember, you were hit, several times! How …?"

"Touch wood, I'll be okay. They were firing single bullets and I probably got lucky. One passed through my left side without seeming to touch any internal organs. The others are lodged in my arm. But I'm using a technique I learned from a doc at Paradise Falls: injecting a stimpak every few hours to keep any infection at bay, until I can get properly fixed up."

Arta swung her legs down from the cot. "Then the sooner we can get you to someone who can help the better. I'll be fine now. And we can ask those Talons how to get the transmitter going. Maybe then we'll be able to get a message through to Agatha."

"Whoa, whoa!" Clover grinned impishly. "You're not wrong about all that, but I'm not so desperate that I need to rise from my sick bed right away." She contrived to wriggle her body sinuously, bent a finger in Arta's direction. "We've got plenty of time to catch up on what we've been missing out on."

"Mmmm … well, then on second thoughts, let's go back to bed!"

* * *

Agatha started and woke from the fitful doze she had fallen into. Her violin lay in her lap, but the bow had fallen from her grasp. She stretched forward to pick it up.

Dogmeat growled.

"It's all right, Dogmeat. Its just Aunty falling asleep and dropping her things again, like the stupid old woman she is."

Dogmeat growled again, louder.

"Good boy, Dogmeat?" Agatha yawned and peered short-sightedly at the worn rug where the Alsatian preferred to rest during the small hours. She saw Dogmeat's head was thrust forward, ears pricked and twitching from side to side.

"Something wrong, boy?"

Dogmeat rose suddenly to his feet and began to bark, loudly and aggressively.

"Oh my."

Somewhat timidly, Agatha got up out of her chair, exchanged the bow for the poker, and approached her front door.

"Who's there? I'm warning you, I'm armed and I've got an extremely large and fierce dog!"

For several beats of her aged but still sturdy heart she heard nothing above Dogmeat's furious barking. Then a woman's voice, young and strong.

"Agatha? Is this Agatha's house?"

There seemed something cold and sinister in the intonation. The old woman trembled, but nerved herself to reply.

"Who, may I ask, wants to know? I don't generally receive strangers at this hour of the night."

"You don't know me, but I know you. My name is Katrina. I'm a friend of Clover, and I've brought someone to see you. Will you open the door?"

"I can hear you just fine from here. You say you're Clover's friend. How do I know that's true?"

Agatha thought she heard a short laugh. "I've been told you're a stout-hearted old lady. I'd rather we talked face to face. Then you may be more inclined to believe what I'm saying."

Agatha hesitated, then shot the bolt, and opened the door a crack. Dogmeat immediately tried to throw himself through the gap, but it was too narrow. Through the opening she could see the young woman's face. There was the same hardness and cynicism in her eyes as her voice, though her hair was arranged in girlish fairytails. She sported a leather armoured jacket similar to those worn by mercenaries Agatha had seen accompanying trader caravans, and on her neck were strange, spiral tattoos.

Trying to restrain Dogmeat, Agatha said, "He doesn't appear to like you. Why should I trust you?"

Again the laugh. "Probably doesn't like the way I smell. Look, after you've met the person I've brought to see you, you'll know I'm on the level. But I have to explain some things to you first. Otherwise … well you might get the wrong idea."

"I don't understand. Who is this person? Why can't they speak for themselves?"

"I'll get to that last one in a moment. Okay, you need to brace yourself, and take a few deep breaths. It's Leo."

Agatha's heart gave a huge leap. "Leo? _My Leo?"_

"Yes but …"

"Why by all that's wonderful …!"

"Yes it is wonderful, in a way. The thing is Agatha, you've gotta prepare yourself for him not being quite the man you once knew. I mean he's probably got the same personality, leastways if he used to be a brave, noble kind of guy. He saved me from death, which is why I'm here to help. But … his appearance has changed. It's changed a lot."

"I don't care." Tears ran down Agatha's wrinkled cheeks. "I don't care what he looks like now. I just want to see him, to hear him."

"Okay, then you can. But I warn you he won't look or sound the same as he did. Leo?"

From the darkness came a great sighing voice, cracked with emotion, "Agatha. Agatha, my love!"

"Leo? You sound so strange!" Trembling she turned to Katrina. "Are you playing a trick on me? That can't be Leo's voice!"

The young woman put a hand on Agatha's arm, with something like sympathy in her eyes. "Believe me, it is. I told you he'd changed. I'm sorry, but it's going to be hard to tell you this. Try to be brave. He was captured by Supermutants. And they changed him. To become one of them."

* * *

The mercenary's eyes were wide with fear. "Please," she said. "Please don't take my soul."

_I wasn't expecting this, _Arta thought. _Raiders maybe. Most of them are barely a step away from savages. But Talons … surely they're far too sophisticated and cynical to be so superstitious?_

She noted that the woman, like her fellow captive, avoided looking directly into her eyes. Instead her glance darted desperately around the walls of the tiny room, sometimes briefly coming to rest on the hilt of the _shiske_ sword, before flicking away again as though the mere sight of it could burn her.

"Tell me," Arta asked. "What happened to Burke? Is he still alive?"

The woman shuddered. "Not alive … he was never alive." Spittle flew from her lips. "Not a man … a demon! A demon that brought the Angel of Death upon us!"

Arta shivered in her turn. There was something infectious about the woman's raw terror. The more so as she realised that it was fear inspired by her presence rather than confinement that was beginning to drive the mercenary out of her mind.

_Is it there in all of us? We see the flash of lightning; we hear the thunder, the gusting of the mighty wind. And it wakes the fear in the primitive part of our souls. Reminds us of when we ran to hide in our caves, grovelling to worship the forces of nature we couldn't understand. Millennia of civilisation haven't removed that sense of awe, the feeling of mystery that something greater than ourselves exists._

_Perhaps because we want to believe it does._

_In the mind of this woman, it's becoming a reality. There probably isn't much I can do to alter that. If I made a joke, even defecated in front of her, she'd interpret it only in terms of the fear she's experiencing._

Arta gestured towards the ham radio set. "Make it work. And set it for frequency two zero two."

She watched while the woman hesitantly complied, noting which switches were pressed, how the dial was altered. Picking up the headset she spoke softly into it.

"This is the Angel of Death calling Aunt Aggie. Come in Aunt Aggie."

There was only static, and she repeated the call sign several times. Then finally the old woman's voice, with just the hint of a quaver in it.

"Arta, is that you? Are you okay? Is Clover with you?"

"Yes, she is and we're both fine. How about you?"

"Oh, much, much better than I have been in a long time! For hearing this and …" there was quite definitely a tremor of emotion in Agatha's voice. "I want to thank you. For helping bring back my Leo."

* * *

"Overseer?" Herman Gomez cleared his throat. "We've finished rounding up the rebels. They're all under lock and key."

"Excellent work, Herman." The Overseer seemed to be staring at an old family photograph on the desk. "I'll want to supervise the interrogations personally."

"Naturally, Overseer." Gomez tried to keep his face composed as the Overseer turned towards him. He'd always felt easier in the presence of Alphonse Aldomovar's daughter, and had sincerely hoped that she might one day succeed him. Now he recalled the old saying about being careful what you wish for.

As usual the Overseer's hair and make-up were immaculate, her mouth slightly pursed up in a sensual fashion which, despite himself, Gomez found hard to ignore. But there was no warmth in the eyes that met his own with a calm and steady look. _Hazel eyes flecked with gold, just like her father's._

"And, of course, I will attend the executions too."

"Ex – executions, Overseer?"

"Indeed." Amata gave a slight smile which sent a chill through the Chief Security Officer's blood. "We must identify the ringleaders and make an example of them. Two should be sufficient." She laughed. "We wouldn't want to unnecessarily depopulate the Vault, would we? We're still going to need a core of residents for the time being."

"Yes but Ama … err pardon me Overseer." Gomez hastily avoided the dagger glance Amata aimed at him. "How can we be sure who the ringleaders are?"

"Really, Herman, you disappoint me. You simply need to make sure the interrogations are vigorous enough. The last to confess will be the worst troublemakers." Amata ran her tongue over her lips thoughtfully. "You can use whatever methods you find most effective."

"Yes, Overseer." Gomez suppressed a shudder. "Is there anything else you require?"

"Has Stanley finished repairing the damage to the Vault's systems yet?"

"I'm not sure, Overseer. I'll check for you."

"When he does, tell him to come and wait outside my office. I have a little electronics project for him to work on."

"Certainly Overseer." Gomez made as if to go.

"Oh, just one other thing." Amata stretched sensuously. "Send Paul to my sleep cell. And make sure we're not disturbed for the next hour." She smiled. "With all my new responsibilities, I really value my rec time."

* * *

"Let's see what the good doctor has in his magic bag."

Doc Hoff was a small, balding man with rounded glasses, a precise way of speaking, and a rumpled, black pre-war suit in surprisingly good condition. Arta waited somewhat nervously as he prepared to inject her with a dose of something he called _Fixer_.

"This ought to help flush your system. I hope though that one bad experience won't put you off my discreet products. With careful and moderate use, they can be real life savers."

Hoff had already painlessly removed the bullets from Clover's arm, explaining that although surgery wasn't normally a service he offered, he always sought to "ease the suffering of my fellow man … or woman."

They stood amidst the foothills outside the drainage chamber, the deserted Temple of the Union to the southwest a guide to the general direction they must travel. Doc Hoff's trade route took him right past Agatha's house, and the extra protection that he and his mercenary guard could provide would be welcome.

The two Talons had been previously released, along with their weapons, and a stern warning that was hardly needed.

_And so finally we can return to something we can call home. For a little while, at least._

Doc Hoff rubbed his stubbly chin with deliberation. "So now I've got you all 'fixed up', can I perhaps interest you in my Nuka Grenade formula? From simple ingredients build a bomb with the force of a mini-nuke. And all for merely four hundred caps." Without smiling, he added, "In the cause of helping humanity, of course."

* * *

"Why do _I _have to go and tell her?" Lucy West's pretty features were clenched into a grimace.

Nova paused in the act of serving a mercenary with beer. "Someone has to. I'm busy right now, Candice is ill and Serena's entertaining a client."

"Well, why does it have to be Jenny and what's so urgent about it?"

"Look its important people know about this, and she's the obvious person to spread it around. No time like the present." The corners of Nova's mouth twitched. "Anyway I thought she was supposed to be your bestest buddy?"

"Not any more. Since I've come here, she's been mostly responsible for the poisonous tittle-tattle about us."

Nova rolled her eyes. "Oh, you mean like you sleeping with me to avoid getting thrown out of Megaton? I thought that sounded particularly convincing."

Lucy's face went red. "Nova you don't mean to say that you think I …"

"Hey relax!" Nova's laughter seemed to show her lack of concern. "I'm just fucking with you. C'mere." She leaned across to loosely drape her arms around Lucy's neck, pulled her close for a kiss on the mouth. "Hurry back, and maybe I'll have something a little more _adventurous_ for you to do."

Lucy had gotten used to Nova kissing her in public like this, but she still felt rather self-conscious. Especially as Jenny had been telling all and sundry that she was Nova's bitch. It hadn't stopped men making their usual offers, hopeful creatures that they were.

She left _Gob's Bar and Grill _(Nova had insisted on retaining the name as a tribute to its late lamented owner) and made her way down the nearest ramp to the crater, nodding to Doc Church leaning on the rail outside his clinic. The full moon shone down brightly on the pool around the bomb, its reflection disturbed by ripples from Confessor Cromwell, knee deep in the water as always. He raised his hand in a blessing, but Lucy received some suspicious looks from the larger than usual crowd of followers gathered around him. She decided to postpone her idea of telling him the news; it wasn't exactly related to religious affairs anyway.

Jenny wasn't at her stall, unsurprising considering the lateness of the hour. Inside _The_ _Brass Lantern _a few of the regulars were propped at the bar, served by its saturnine proprietor with his usual poor grace. Lucy wondered for the hundredth time why someone as miserable, sarcastic and rude as Andy Stahl would choose to run a diner. She leaned over the bar and forced herself to smile at him.

"Where's Jen?"

Andy gave her a sour look. "You want some decent food and drink for a change? Then let's see the colour of your caps. Otherwise you can fuck off back to _Gob's _shite hole."

Lucy fought down the urge to slap Andy. "It's _Gob's Bar and Grill _if you please_. _Look tell me what I want to know, and I'll get out of your hair."

Andy pointed to the bottles on the bar without replying. Irritably Lucy flipped some caps onto the stained wooden surface and received a nuka-cola in return. "So where is she?"

Andy grinned. "Am I my sister's keeper? No idea."

Enraged Lucy was about to slam down the cola and leave, when she received a tug on the arm. She turned to meet the glassy-eyed stare of Leo Stahl.

"Hey Lucy, you looking for Jen? I can tell you where she is. How bout we step outside?"

Lucy followed the drug-dealer reluctantly. She usually preferred to avoid him, disliking the lascivious way he looked at her when he was wired. As he quite obviously was now.

Leo sidled into a dark corner, and motioned Lucy to join him. "I've gotta sweet deal for ya, gorgeous. I need to fence some buffout."

Lucy fought with herself not to recoil. "Look right now I really have to see Jen and …"

Leo shrugged. "No problem. You help me out, I help you out."

Lucy sighed. She hated being involved in this, but Nova's deal with the Kindred meant all kinds of illicit trade was passing through the bar.

"I've only gotta hundred caps, unless you can front."

"That'll do for now." He gave a leer. "And I'll give you a discount, seeing as you're my best girl."

Overcoming her revulsion, Lucy moved into the shadows to make the exchange. "So …?"

Leo grinned somewhat wolfishly. "She went up to the water processor, like she has nearly every night for the past few days. What she does there … I guess you're about to find out."

* * *

Arta pulled back Agatha's carpet to reveal the hidden trapdoor. She stopped for a moment listening. Agatha and Leo were conversing nearby in low, intimate tones. The old woman sounded blissfully happy, and the edge of harshness seemed gone from Leo's voice. _Its just amazing; they've picked up from where they left off almost as though nothing had happened. It really restores your faith in humanity … and near-humanity. _From outside came gleeful shouts and barks; Clover and Katrina were playing a ball game with Dogmeat. _He'll have to get used to the smell of Raiders, I guess._

_For the first time in my life, I feel a sense of belonging, of being among friends … and more than friends. Is this what its like to be in … a family?_

She inserted her hand into the gap in the floorboards, uncovering the stairs, descended into the calm, still air of the library, closing the trap above her. The comforting sounds were abruptly cut off._ I can't let myself start feeling too much at home. Not yet._ There was much work to be done and no telling where she might have to go to complete it. Would her companions be able to travel with her to the end of that journey? Some had already stumbled on the way.

Scanning the shelves, she quickly found _Angels and Demons of the Ancient World. _She felt a compulsive need to read the story of Azrael again, to achieve a new understanding. Sitting in Leo's old rocking chair, sadly no longer usable by its original owner, she opened the heavy volume.

_Of those angels permitted to stand in the presence of the Most High, the two greatest in glory were Lucifer and Azrael. But while Lucifer shone with the light of the morning star, the spirit of Azrael was one of fire, and between them was love such as existed amongst the sons and daughters of God._

_Now when Lucifer spoke of rebellion, Azrael pleaded that he should not proceed with open war against the Almighty, but Lucifer would not listen to this counsel. Therefore for the sake of the love she bore him, Azrael made confederacy with the rebellious angels, and when they were defeated was cast with them into the Abyss. Then of all the Fallen, Azrael alone repented, and cried aloud in the darkness._

_And it came to pass that the prayer of Azrael was heard, and Death descended into Hell, and brought her forth. And Azrael was granted this mercy: that she should be the servant of Death, and gather to him souls until the world ended. To her were given the Sword of Annihilation, and the Book of Souls wherein the names of the living are recorded; and the Sword burned so with the fire of her spirit that none amongst the living or dead could withstand it._

_But it was not suffered that she should remain in the presence of the Most High, but must bear her duty out into the Void between the worlds. And so the Angel of Death dwells there alone, and with sorrow beholds the radiant light of heaven afar off, until the Last Judgement shall come._

Arta stopped reading to wipe the tears from her eyes. Azrael too had trusted in a companion who had failed her. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be such a creature, barred from heaven until time itself ended. When the bombs fell, it must have appeared that the day of doom was indeed nigh. Instead the Nuclear Apocalypse had been only the prelude to another bloody chapter in human history. How the Angel of Death must have yearned for her exile to end, to return to the light.

_I know that much at least. How precious is the light of the sun. And yet though it rises each day, how easily I can lose it to the eternal dark._

And yet … had this tale inserted itself into her dreams and thoughts? So that sometimes she imagined she was a supernatural being of vast power. How could that be possible? It was insanity.

_Am I insane? Psychopathic even? I have moments when I can't properly remember what I've said or done. And then people die. There was that time in the Vault when I almost killed Amata and Jonas. That horrible murderous feeling I had._

_But no … I didn't kill them. I didn't kill the Overseer either, when it would have been easier to do so. I don't WANT to kill people, but sometimes I have to do it._

She looked one more time at the picture of the angel alone on the rock with its flaming sword. Then she abruptly snapped the book shut. She had read and thought enough. It was time to get to work.

* * *

Lucy paused outside the corrugated metal front of the Water Processing Plant, listening to the faint clank of machinery within. It was about this time that Old Walter took himself down to the tavern for an hour or two's drinking. So whatever Jenny was doing here probably had nothing to do with him, and might be something she didn't want others to know about.

Lucy opened the door very carefully and quietly, and slipped inside. The patchy lighting and the large water pipes running down the centre of the main room provided plenty of shadow and concealment for her to hide in so long as her entrance went unnoticed. But the processor room was empty. She edged cautiously forward. If Jenny or anyone else was here it would be in the backrooms where Walter lived and slept. She caught sight of something yellow lying on the floor. Approaching closer she realised it was Jenny's lemon-coloured jumpsuit. Near to it she spotted a brassiere and a pair of panties, clearly discarded in haste.

Lucy smiled to herself. She had suspected something like this; a romantic liaison was one of the most likely explanations for sneaking into the processor at night, especially considering the prudish attitude Jenny displayed to the world. She wondered who her secret lover might be … Sheriff Simms perhaps? He had often appeared admiring of the brunette. Lucy crept closer to the far end of the room. Peering round a water pipe, she saw that the door to the living quarters was open. Despite her expectations, her eyes widened in shock.

Jenny was kneeling down in the doorway, completely naked. She was facing someone Lucy couldn't identify, as he was mostly out of sight behind the partition wall. She knew he was there because of the part of his body which Jenny was rubbing vigorously between her hands.

Lucy's face grew warm, but she continued to watch fascinated, trusting that shadow and Jenny's preoccupation would allow her to do so unobserved. She noted that the object of Jenny's attention remained somewhat limp, something she judged rather surprising considering the stall owner's obvious charms, and despite her declining to use her mouth for further encouragement. However persistence brought its reward, and Lucy had to concede that a truly impressive erection had been achieved. She could hear the harsh breathing of the hidden man above the background whir of machinery, and the moan he gave as Jenny released him. Something about it sounded familiar.

Jenny rose and backed away, seating herself on the desk next to the door, and spreading her legs wide. She pushed back the right side of her waved hair with seeming casualness, then let her hand slide downwards to brush her nipples; both gestures obviously intended to be provocative.

_Not exactly subtle, Jen, _Lucy thought, before giving a gasp of astonishment. Jenny's lover had stepped forward, and though Lucy had never before seen him naked, or had ever had such a good view of his tattoos and the taut muscularity of his back and thighs, she could see enough to realise that it was Jericho. She was still recovering from the shock as he thrust himself between Jenny's outstretched legs, and the two of them twined together in a close embrace.

_Jericho? What can she be thinking? _As she watched them begin to moan and thrash, Lucy reflected that the initial flaccidity of his organ was explained at least. He'd been drinking so much since his return it was amazing that he could get it up at all. He'd also kept himself to himself to an even greater degree than usual, reacting with outright hostility to any attempted social interaction. There'd even been violent incidents with blood spilt, so that bystanders tended to scurry out of his way on the rare occasions he left his shack, which he seemed to do only to eat and drink.

_This doesn't look like a casual screw and must go way back._ Lucy had always figured Jenny was repressing something _(takes one to know one), _which was to be expected when the object of her lust was Jericho. It wouldn't have done much for either her public image or her own self-esteem to be 'walking out' with someone usually regarded with at least suspicion and disapproval, and quite often with fear and loathing.

The obvious intensity of the feelings between them seemed to support this theory. Lucy could see Jenny's fingernails clawing Jericho's back, drawing blood, and he was pounding into her so hard that the desk was rattling violently at each thrust. From the noises they were making, it sounded like it was mind-blowing for both of them. Rather against her inclinations, Lucy felt a stirring in her loins, and reached into her panties in response, finding plenty of wetness there to help stimulate herself.

On the desk, Jenny was urging Jericho on. "Fuck me, fuck me, you bastard!" The climax seemed to come with him half lifting her off the desk to ram her against the wall, her moans increasing with each repetition. Lucy focused on the look of her face softening with the release of orgasm, while trying unsuccessfully to bring herself to the same point.

But Jericho wasn't quite done, and withdrawing, took himself in hand to pump his seed over Jenny's breasts and belly; then knelt in front of her in his turn, head between her parted thighs, and Lucy was able to use her imagination to reach where she needed to be. _Go on, Jericho, give it to her from me! Make the tight-cunted bitch come again! _ Stirring herself assiduously in time with Jenny's gasps of pleasure was enough to fire up Lucy's own rocket, and send herself into orbit as soon as she heard her former friend coming to a resounding climax for the second time.

By the time she'd returned to earth, Lucy realised that Jericho was dressing and Jenny was cleaning up, and that she'd better find a better place to hide. She pressed herself back between the plant machinery and a water tank. Jericho left, without any exchange of endearments or any comment at all, passing along the opposite side of the room, but Lucy thought she could feel his glance probing for her like a searchlight. Whether or not he saw her, he gave no sign, and the door swung shut behind him. After some consideration, Lucy emerged from her hiding place, and strolled towards the living quarters, picking up Jenny's jumpsuit on the way.

Jenny was in the process of putting on her bra, and started violently.

"What the fuck are you doing …?"

Holding up the crumpled yellow coverall, Lucy said sweetly, "I believe you left this?"

For a moment Jenny's eyes showed the fear and shame of discovery. Then, to Lucy's surprise, she shrugged in weary resignation.

"So you know. I suppose Leo must've told you I was here. The drugged up little jerk keeps his stash in that locked desk, so I had to let him in on it. He'll be along later to shoot up. Walter knows too, of course."

Momentarily distracted, Lucy exclaimed, "You know Leo's a dealer and a junky?"

"Naturally. How d'you think _The Brass Lantern_ competes with _Moriarty's _or whatever shit name it's got now. We front drugs for the Kindred, same as you do. Hell we'd deal arms too if it kept us in business." She shrugged again. "So what d'you want to keep your mouth shut about this? A piece of my arse maybe? Well, why don't you take it? It's not like I've any pride left."

Lucy was shocked and disarmed by Jenny's sudden frankness and bitterness. "I don't want that," she lied.

"Oh yeah? I thought you were batting for the dyke team these days. Or maybe I'm overestimating the value of my arse. That figures. All right, how about _quid pro quo? _I lay off the innuendos, and you do the same."

Lucy shrugged in her turn. "It's a little late for that. But okay. Just get your story straight, and tell people that Nova and I …" she flushed slightly "want to be together, and that its nothing to do with caps or staying in Megaton."

Jenny raised her eyebrows. "For real? Well, that's very heart-warming stuff, and makes me want to cry."

Lucy ignored the obvious sarcasm. "Is it a deal?"

"Sure. It beats letting you finger me."

"Look, Jen, there's no need for this hostility between us."

"Isn't there? Apart from you joining the carpet munching society, there's the little matter of you working for my main business rival."

"I meant that I preferred it when we used to be friends." Lucy looked sorrowful. "Forget about me for a moment, what's got into you? I thought you had more self-respect. I mean, Jericho, of all people."

Jenny gave her a desperate look which Lucy felt was almost like that of a hopeless prisoner. "I could as easily say, 'Nova, of all people'."

"Maybe you could, but that doesn't even get close to how fucked up your relationship with him is. You hide away like you're ashamed, you don't seem to have much in the way of mutual respect. I mean, do you even _like _each other?"

Jenny took the jumpsuit from Lucy, started to put it on. "Well, let me see. After rutting with me, which is a pretty good description of how he goes about it, he slinks off and drinks himself into a stupor for another day. Draw your own conclusions." She zippered up the suit. "Look, people sometimes describe being in love like its an illness. That I can identify with."

"This isn't _love, _Jenny." Lucy thought of how Jenny had looked afterwards; satisfied certainly, but like her brother after he'd got his fix. "It's more like an addiction."

"Love, addiction, who gives a fuck which?" Jenny gnawed her lip, gave Lucy a glance. "All I know is that at the time and for a little while after the world seems less full of shit."

Lucy shook her head. "You've got the wrong man, one who doesn't love you, and is an evil bastard to boot. Try finding someone else. Half of Megaton'll probably be lining up, with Simms at the front of the queue."

Jenny pursed her lips. "He's a good man, but I guess I'm just not the law and order type."

Lucy held up her hands hopelessly. "I give up. But for what its worth, I wish you plenty of luck. You're gonna need it."

"Well, that's sweet of you."

_Still with the sarcasm. _Lucy was almost turning to go, stopped. "Jees, I nearly forgot why I came here. Nova got an important message from outside Megaton. There's gonna be a radio broadcast, on the old Galaxy News frequency, at twelve midday, three days from now."

"GNR's starting up again?"

"I dunno. I don't think so. But whoever's doing it, they want everyone to listen. And I mean everyone. Across the whole of the Wastes. They want us to spread the word into all the surrounding settlements if we can."

Jenny had begun to re-order her hair. She said, in a business-like fashion, "Well if it spreads along the caravan routes, then it's certainly possible. And some still keep the GNR frequency on anyway, just in case. Sure, I'll do what I can." She finished sprucing herself up by wiping her face with minimal water. "But I'd like to know who these people are and what they're intending, good or bad."

* * *

At precisely twelve noon, the carriage clock which Manya had somehow found intact and kept to time all the long years of her residence in Megaton, began to chime insistently. The melodious notes carried from the trestle table on the terrace through the hot, still air and broke the expectant hush that had fallen over the town.

As the last chime faded, the quality of the silence might have brought the sound of a bobby pin dropping to a listener's ear. Instead from all of the town's radios came a simultaneous loud static crackle.

And then … music.

_I don't want to set the world on fire,_

_I just want to start a flame in your heart._

_In my heart I have but one desire,_

_And that one is you,_

_No other will do._

_I've lost all ambition for worldly acclaim,_

_I just want to be the one you love,_

_And with your admission that you feel the same,_

_I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of._

_Believe me,_

_I don't want to set the world on fire,_

_I just want to start a flame in your heart._

They all stood silently to listen, some with tears in their eyes. The song ended in another burst of feedback, then came a woman's voice, pleasant in intonation, like wine matured for many years in oak casks, but strained with the lilt of age, and just a hint of nervousness.

"That one was for Three-Dog … _bow-wow_ … may he rest in peace! Now Aunt Aggie's Radio will be bringing you a selection of the tunes he used to play. But first we have an important message from the woman who helped to preserve them. I give you the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101 …"

Agatha depressed the mute button on the broadcast console. "Arta, are you quite sure this is how you wish to be known?"

"It's part of who I am."

Agatha sighed and released the button. "… Artemesia Wendell, also known as the _Angel of Death_." She briefly pressed it again. "Okay, you're on, good luck!"

There was a break in the transmission, then a slight cough, followed by the clear voice of a young woman.

"People of the Wasteland! I greet you, not as a stranger, or an outsider, but as one who has lived amongst you, and knows what you suffer day to day. Who has shared in your hopes and fears. And who now asks you to join in a struggle to fulfil those hopes and end those fears.

No doubt many of you are sceptical, having heard so much similar propaganda before, from the Enclave and Brotherhood of Steel alike. Promises of help which have not been fulfilled. The Wastes will never be transformed into somewhere fit for ourselves and our children to live while different factions vie with each other for control, and follow only the interests of their supporters. I am proposing an alliance of all those who believe that the restoration of civilisation to our capital is possible. And that means each one of you can help, each one of you has responsibility.

You may think there's nothing that you can do, that you're afraid. I tell you that there's nothing you _cannot _do if you believe. It is not the world around us, harsh though it may be, that prevents us from realising our dreams. It is ourselves and our fear of each other. Overcome those fears, unite together and the world we have lost can be regained.

To those who would oppose this dream, I say, it is better to join with the tide of history than to be swept away.

And to those who want to believe and those who still doubt, I say, we will show you a sign of the beginning of the end of your sorrows. In Megaton, seven days to this very hour.

This is the Angel of Death, signing off."

There was a pause, and Agatha's voice returned saying, "And now, as promised some more music, another hit by the _Inkspots: Maybe."_

Turning off the mike, she said, "I really hope you know what you're doing, Arta. This could turn out badly."

"Leo and Clover have faith, Agatha."

"That's exactly what worries me. Too much faith in anyone or anything can lead you astray. And grateful as I am, I'd rather not see everyone dear to me caught in the maelstrom. That would take away even more than you've given back."

"To believe or not is a choice like any other. And we're defined by our choices."

"Well I can see you've learned how to talk the talk. I just hope that when it comes to walking the walk … anyway, when do I get the chance to play my violin for everyone?"

Clover said, laughing. "Whenever you like, Aunt Aggie. But wouldn't you prefer for us to get you that Soil Stradivarius first? That home-made violin's never quite in tune, is it?"

"Hmmm, I certainly would. But it won't be easy, and with all the other things you're gonna have to do …"

Arta said, "We can do it, Agatha. We can do anything now."

* * *

___*I used it to home in: _The _Fallout Wikia_ explains a technique for finding the actual source of a signal (the ham radio) rather than the tower itself. Essentially it involves walking around to see where the signal starts to break up, or is clearer.

_You were in serious withdrawal: _I guess I should mention that FanfictionFan360's story _Withdrawal_ was the inspiration for this episode, in which Clover helps the LW get through his withdrawal symptoms until Dogmeat can fetch him some drugs. Sleazy but enjoyable, with plenty of deadpan humour! Also makes the serious point that the effects of withdrawal in the game aren't nearly realistic enough, and more of an inconvenience.

_Fixer: _is, of course, a New Vegas drug with some side effects which are easy to cope with (if you rest immediately after taking it). Despite suggestions to the contrary, it will cure addiction with the same degree of permanency as a Fallout 3 doctor; i.e. you'll be fine as long as you don't get re-addicted.

_Shiske _sword: The original name given to the _shishkebab_ by its inventor, Adam Adamowicz, the Bethesda concept artist who died in February of this year at the far too young age of forty-three. As he was the principle concept artist for Fallout and Oblivion, pretty much the whole look of those games is down to him. But in a blog not long before his death, he said he was especially proud of inventing the flaming sword, without which this story would've been far different and, I believe, far poorer. If you're among the angels and can hear me, Adam, then this is dedicated to you.

_Sons and daughters of god: _do angels have a sex/have sex? An old controversy from Genesis 6 refers to the 'sons of god' taking the 'daughters of men' in marriage. Regardless of that, without use of gender terms the writing of this largely _invented _mythology would be too clumsy, so Lucifer (aka Satan) is 'him' and Azrael, the Angel of Death, 'her'.

_Note to the above: FAYNEIR _has reminded me its debatable whether Lucifer is Satan, or even a fallen angel. However there's a body of literature and theology based on this idea, notably Milton's _Paradise Lost, _a fragment of which even appears as a Fallout Three object. In any case its pretty insignificant compared to the other things I've made up!

_The Lone Wanderer: _The first time Arta's been referred to as such, (usually Three Dog mentions it in the game) but her surname, _Wendell _means 'Wanderer'.*


	35. Return to the Underworld

Ch 35 Return to the Underworld

_This is an automated distress message from Vault-Tech, Vault 101: _

_It feels like you left home a long time ago, but I know you're still out there. I just hope you're alive to hear this. Things got worse after you left. My father is dead, and I need your help. I changed the door password to my name. If you're hearing this, and if you still care enough about me, you should remember it. Message repeats:_

Agatha tweaked the receiver dial. "Its on a continuous loop. The signal was very weak at first, but then was boosted somehow. Even so, without the tower, it would've been extremely difficult to pick up at this distance."

"Can you get a fix on the transmission enough to reply to it?" Arta fought for control of her speech.

"I can give it a try, my dear."

Hearing Amata's voice so unexpectedly, charged with an emotion that could've been or desperation or anger or both, made it impossible for Arta to maintain an appearance of calm. Her face betrayed her as she turned to meet Clover's enquiring glance.

"An old friend … from the Vault … she needs me to…"

"Yeah, I got the gist." Clover's expression was uncharacteristically sphinx-like. "And by the sound of her, a very _good _friend."

Agatha said, a trifle reprovingly, "Of course, Arta's bound to have some friends from her previous life in the Vault. You don't have to be jealous of them."

"I'm not jealous … of her _friends._"

Seemingly oblivious of Clover's implication, Agatha turned back to the radio. "Well, I'm pleased to hear that, Clover dear. Now let me see …"

Urgently tugging Arta aside, her voice lowered, Clover said, "Its _her, _isn't it?"

Arta didn't need further elaboration. "Yes," she admitted.

"Well, what about her question? Do you care?" the blonde almost hissed.

_She's deserved my honesty, _Arta thought. She said, "I care enough to go and help her, if she needs me."

Clover nodded silently and grimly. She went to sit down with Dogmeat, who gave a little whine as she mechanically sought comfort by scratching his ears.

From the radio, Agatha said, "I can't establish two-way communication. But perhaps I could send a message in reply."

Arta chewed her lip, and looked at Clover, who was pointedly ignoring her. "If you can, tell her I'll be there in two to three hours."

* * *

They came from all four quarters of the Wasteland. From the Republic of Dave in the North, Canterbury Commons in the East, Girdershade in the West, and as far south as Andale and Rivet City. Some travelled in hope, others with a sense of purpose, many came purely out of curiosity or cynical opportunism. They converged on Megaton, completely overwhelming its capacity to accommodate them, and creating a mini-boom for its merchants and the other outside traders who had arrived with the aim of exploiting just such a business opportunity. A temporary city of tents and campsites was set up outside the walls, allowing plundering opportunities for thieves, con artists and Raiders, and becoming a goldmine for sellers of food and water.

The difficulties with crime, along with the potential for conflict between mutually antagonistic factions, seemed likely to give Sheriff Lucas Simms nightmarish problems of law and order. Apart from the Stockholms, every one of his deputies was either dead or (in the case of Jericho) resolutely failing to make himself available for duty. Fortunately Simms had wisely anticipated the crisis, and on the first day after the transmission, a large force of Regulators arrived in the town under the command of Sonora Cruz herself. Although this was not the kind of policing they normally engaged in, the Regulators, like the other major factions present, were driven by curiosity and a desire not to miss out on any important developments.

Most significant settlements and organisations in the Wastes had sent some representatives. These included a delegation from the largest population centre outside Megaton, Rivet City, led by its second-in-command of security, Lana Danvers. Both the Brotherhood of Steel and the Outcasts sent sizable forces, creating the possibility of a flash point between them. However conflict was avoided, as the Outcasts were rather surprisingly represented by their supreme leader, Protector Casdin, and the Brotherhood by Scribe Reginald Rothchild. Despite being Owyn Lyons' close adviser, Rothchild was an old friend of Casdin's, and sympathetic to his views on the acquisition of technology. The two men were even seen chatting with apparent amiability, giving rise to rumours that the fractured halves of the Brotherhood might be about to reconcile.

The other most heavily armed group came from Paradise Falls, nominally headed by Ymir, presumably with the intention of showing an acceptable friendly face on Eulogy Jones' behalf. This seemed to have backfired, as, despite Jotun's efforts to keep him out of trouble, the bearded slaver was involved in several brawls in the town's drinking establishments.

There were also significant absentees, both expected and unexpected. Not a single soldier was present from either of the Wasteland's leading mercenary forces, Talon Company and Reilly's Rangers. And no one came from Tenpenny Towers, provoking more speculation about its involvement in the supposed plot to explode the bomb. The Enclave also failed to appear, which was of no surprise to anyone other than Old Nathan.

But the majority of those present were not affiliated to any faction: a huge and diverse mix of adventurers, free-booters, beggars, scavengers, hunters, criminals and traders. They mingled together, bartered, defrauded one other, quarrelled, formed friendships and had love affairs. Nothing united them except their common humanity and the burning question in all of their minds. _What is going to happen?_

* * *

"We shouldn't even be doing this," Clover complained. "And as for you dragging poor Uncle Leo out here, you ought to be ashamed."

Leo leaned against an overhanging boulder, with an air of bemusement. "It was a triflingly short and straightforward trip. A few minor nuisances apart, like these biting insects." He rubbed a massive arm along the rough granite, and sighed with relief. "Aha, much better! Indeed the view is particularly fine from up here. When you first emerged from the Vault, Arta, it must have been an _interesting_ experience, to say the least."

Clover pointed to a weathered sign reading '_scenic overlook'_. "I bet it was! The only trouble being that the view works in both directions. We don't want a bunch of do-gooders trying to kill you, do we? We ought to have brought Dogmeat instead; or even Katrina."

Arta did her best to maintain a relaxed posture and tone of voice. "Really, Clo, you're worrying unnecessarily. Leo's been wandering the Wastes for years without coming to grief. I thought he might be useful to bring along." This had already been born out by events. Leo had kicked several mole rats and wild dogs like footballs, smashed a Radscorpion with his nailboard, and intimidated a Raider group into grovelling submission. "If we go on to Grayditch, he can help with the Supermutants that seem to hang around there. Dogmeat would've been a positive liability. He'd be in constant danger of getting barbequed by the ants."

"We could've sent him back before that, he's gotta a homing instinct, I'm telling you. Sure Uncle's been fine up to now, but mutants don't usually venture this close to Megaton, and if things go to plan, there's likely to be even more Frankenstein-hating humans in the vicinity."

Leo shook his head sadly, "I wish that wasn't used as a term of abuse. Frankenstein's monster was a noble soul, unfortunately misunderstood."

_If Clover knew my intentions exactly, then she'd be even more worried!_ Arta said soothingly, "It's a little late to be carping like this, isn't it? Leo should be able to find somewhere to hide in the rocks. As for Katrina, you know very well she's got other more important things to do." _As my high priestess amongst the Raiders! _She paused, then decided to confront the issue head on. "You're trying to find excuses because you don't like me doing this, aren't you?"

Clover nodded stubbornly. "If you mean I don't want you to meet that slut in there without me, then, yes, guilty as charged."

Arta said gently, "After all this time, and all we've been through, don't you trust me?"

Clover's lip trembled, "I would've done … but when I saw how you looked when that message came in …"

"Of course, she meant a lot to me once, just like Eulogy did to you."

"And I've renounced any affection for him … on plenty of occasions. Whereas you hardly would've mentioned this bitch if I hadn't prodded you to it." Clover gave a sniffle. "Every minute you're in there with her will feel like an hour for me. Let me go with you."

"I can't take another outsider into the Vault just like that. It could have … unpredictable consequences." Arta slid an arm round Clover's shoulders, pinched her cheek affectionately. "C'mon, don't upset yourself. D'you really think I want to go back to that living tomb for any longer than I have to? I'll be out again as soon as the trouble's dealt with." She turned Clover's face towards her, kissed her cheek. "This is just something that I have to do on my own to … settle past accounts."

Leo pronounced with solemnity, "To confront the future, one must also confront the past. This I've learnt."

_I guess that's another reason I brought you, Leo. For the words of wisdom you so often find._

Though not nearly as intense as when she left, Arta's emotions as she climbed the steep rocky path leading back to the Vault were still profound. When she first caught sight of the huge circular door looming out of the darkness, after pushing back the wooden shutter bathed in now-familiar sunlight, she felt something between a chill and a thrill of excitement. It was the place she had sometimes had nightmares about returning to. Yet it was also where she had grown up, had developed into the person who'd survived everything the Wasteland had thrown at her. And Amata was there.

Nevertheless the different circumstances allowed her to look around with much greater attention to detail. Time-blackened bones were scattered around the entrance, right up to the titanic steel hatch, and desperate messages scrawled in red ink, or more probably blood: _'We're dying, arseholes!' 'Let us in, motherfuckers!'_ She could see the imprint of her own footsteps as she left, and those others which must be her father's. _On the day I vowed I would never come back._

The three numbers on the massive cogwheel-shaped door burned themselves into her mind, giving her cause to reflect. She knew she wasn't born in this Vault, that her origins were elsewhere. But what were they exactly? Was she descended from the tormented souls who, unlike those lying here, had survived the holocaust unprotected outside, against all the odds? That seemed unlikely. She remembered on one occasion her father had assured her that her genetic inheritance was unblemished, though at the time it had appeared an odd thing for him to assert. Maybe her ancestors had taken refuge in another Vault and emerged quite recently. Or more fittingly, they'd been part of a protected scientific or military institution, such as the Brotherhood of Steel. Perhaps even the Enclave.

She put aside the speculation. No one but her father could confirm or deny such claims, if anyone could. Looking at the white outlines of the numerals, she acknowledged the certainty that this place had shaped her. The Wastelander known as the Angel of Death was also the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101.

Drawing a deep breath, she entered the letters A-M-A-T-A into the code door control. As before, on the most important day of her life, alarms began to sound, then, with a sudden hiss of releasing pressure, the great door drew away from her and rolled aside. On the other side of it, lights revolved and flashed. And there, caught as though between two clicks of a camera's shutter, Amata stood. Her form, figure and face were as slender, as delicate and as beautiful as ever, the tightness of her Vault suit outlining the graceful curves of her body.

It was almost as if the intervening time had never happened, and she had closed the door an instant before. Arta felt a rush of emotions long suppressed, thoughts she had tried to put to the back of her mind. Like the plaintive words of a song that brings back memories.

_Maybe you'll think of me, _

_When you are far away._

_Maybe the one who is waiting for you,_

_Will prove untrue,_

_Then what will you do?_

She advanced hesitantly, her heart beating; then giving way to a sudden and irresistible impulse, ran forward to fling herself into Amata's arms. The softness of her body, the softness of her face and lips as they held and kissed one another seemed part of another world entirely, a heaven of bliss. Arta allowed herself to ride on the wave of sensations, revelling in them, and when they eventually parted, she felt for a moment drained, as though her soul had been sucked out of her.

She looked into Amata's eyes, thinking they looked as passionately intense, as magnetically appealing as when they had been friends and lovers. _They still have that mysterious quality, so different to the openness and honesty in Clover's, but so alluring. _And there was something more: an aura of strength, confidence and authority. She'd seen it before in the eyes of Eulogy Jones, of Burke, of the Overseer himself.

Before she could further reflect, Amata spoke, a faint smile on her lips.

"You've come back, Arta. I knew that you would. I knew that you wouldn't forget me."

Arta drew a much needed breath. "I tried to."

"Yes. But you couldn't. And if you ever had, I would've haunted your dreams. Like an insistent ghost." Amata's expression changed to one that was almost grave. "You look very much the same and yet so different."

Arta said, "So do you."

"My life, like yours, has changed, though not, I suspect as much. You've proved its possible to survive outside the Vault, like you always said you would. Tell me how you did it … tell me what it's like out there."

"More dreadful and wonderful than we could ever imagine in here. If I had a year, I couldn't find the words to describe it."

"But you must try. We will go to my office and … talk." Amata gestured across the room, where the door to the secret passage lay open. "You see, I'm now the Overseer of Vault 101."

* * *

Clover paced restlessly up and down. "What the hell's going on in there?"

Leo watched her with concern. "The future is uncertain; be aware of the present moment," he suggested.

"I am. She's already been gone an hour."

"Time is an illusion."

"For real. Says who?"

Leo scratched uncomfortably. "There is safety in mindfulness," he mumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry what it means. Just try to relax."

* * *

Amata reclined backwards and folded her arms. "Well," she said. "That's quite a story."

_You don't know the half of it. Because I haven't told you more than the bare essentials._ Arta had given the briefest account of the Wasteland and her movements within it, deliberately leaving out mention of any romantic entanglements. While speaking, she'd concentrated less on embellishing the story, and more on watching Amata. Her face was intent, as she listened, mostly in silence, occasionally interposing questions. Arta was reminded of the time she'd told Silver about the Vault; Amata had the same air of fascinated calculation. But without the easy credulity with which Silver had swallowed everything. _She's intelligent enough to figure I'm keeping things from her._

Arta said, "Of course there's a lot more to tell. But you called me back to help you, and I think its time you told me why, and what's happened to the Vault since I left."

Amata tilted the chair back at a little. Arta had never seen one like it, and concluded it must be Stanley's handiwork, probably with some help from Andy: a combination of a temperfoam bed and a surgical chair. Amata had clearly made every effort to make herself at home in her new role. She'd also installed a bunk in the room, which Arta was sitting on.

"Those two questions are tied together," she said. "Your departure, along with your father's, left the Vault in chaos. Even after most of the radroaches were driven out, people were restless, angry and uncertain. Rumours were flying thick and fast about the Outside, and some were wondering whether it would be possible to live out there. There was rebellion in the air, though at first fear of the security crackdown kept it suppressed.

But my father had changed. I'm sure it was his encounter with you that did it. He seemed to have lost all confidence, all authority. Security was actually reined in. With no one taking charge, the rebels became more confident. It started with those ridiculous Tunnel Snakes and Butch DeLoria. They were openly mocking and defying my father. But it wasn't until Mr Brotch and that overbearing bitch Suzy Mack joined that they really gained strength. And then …" Amata seemed to blink and wipe away a tear. "The impossible happened. They … they killed him! The bastards!"

Arta felt an icy chill grip her stomach. "Your father? Who killed him? The Tunnel snakes?"

Amata sprang from the chair, walked agitatedly about the room. "They, or their damn camp followers, it doesn't really matter. They were all guilty of his death, his assassination."

"His assassination?" Arta likewise rose to her feet, and approached her friend. "How did he die?"

Amata had paused to pour herself some whisky from a new drinks cabinet on the wall.

"Poisoning." She abruptly knocked back the glass. Arta almost automatically slid an arm around her shoulders. She said nothing.

"Of course, with James gone and Jonas dead, we had no doctors. Daddy really suffered before he died. In the end there was nothing we could do but give him something for the pain." Amata gave a sniff.

Arta tightened her grip without even being aware of it. She stared straight ahead, thinking furiously.

_You! You did it!_

_Didn't you?_

A sob in her voice, Amata went on, "Naturally all right-thinking people in the Vault were shocked. They came to me, begging me to take my father's place as Overseer. To end the chaos. And I could do nothing but agree to take on the burden of responsibility. I ordered security to take immediate and severe action against the rebels. There was violence, destruction and even some deaths. But the leaders of the revolt are all in the holding cells. The rebellion is over, thank god." Amata took another gulp of the whisky.

_Thank god? Or the devil? You've got it now, all the power you wanted._

Arta said quietly, "Was the violence really necessary? If all that they wanted was the chance to leave the Vault, you could've negotiated …"

"Negotiate? With my father's murderers? Are you joking?" Amata slammed down the glass. "In any case, allowing an undisciplined exodus was out of the question. I had to assert my authority, or the disruption would've got worse, would have led to the complete destruction of the Vault!"

_That sounded like something your father would've said, _Arta thought. But she asked, "If you have the situation in hand, why do you need my help?"

"I should've thought that was obvious from what I've told you. We've suffered a severe loss of personnel, some of them in key positions like your father. Also the damage to the Vault has been extensive, and we're in serious need of replacement parts. We have to look to the outside for help, like my father did in the time before we were born. You've already been out there. You'll know far better than us how and where to get the right people, the right equipment. You can be our go-between."

"An angel of mercy flitting between the Underworld and the Wasteland?"

"If you want to put it that way. Look." Amata turned to gaze directly into Arta's eyes. "I know you hated the Vault. But it's where you grew up. And now you can come and go as you please." She reached out a hand to touch Arta's cheek. "If you won't do it for the Vault, do it for _me_. Once you left, I realised how much I missed you. There was no one else I could share things with the way we did." She moved the hand to brush Arta's lips with her fingers, then abruptly lower to smooth them over the region of her breasts. "You said once that you loved me. And now I know … I love you too."

Arta felt herself shaken to the core at Amata's words and touch. She struggled to collect herself, to find the right response to make.

"Amata …"

Encouraged by her lack of resistance, Amata began to shower Arta's face with kisses, and her hands began to rove freely over her the intimate areas of her body.

"Amata … please …"

Amata tore down the zip of her jumpsuit, seized Arta's left hand and placed it over her breast. "C'mon, make love to me right here and now! I know you want to. I know you've been waiting so long to have me."

Arta made a mighty effort and thrust Amata away from her. "Two years, Amata! Two years! You could've had me any time before I left the Vault. Why didn't you? Why's it only now you're offering yourself to me?"

"I told you before I didn't know my own mind then. But now …" She held out her arms. "I'm burning to have you. I want you to caress every inch of my body."

Arta pushed her back again. "No, Amata, I can't! I mustn't!"

Anger flashed across Amata's face like a sudden storm breaking. "Can't? Mustn't? There's someone else, isn't there?"

"Yes ! So there's no use in you …"

"There's no one in the world who could generate one thousandth of the passion between me and you!" Amata's voice had changed so that it was almost gloating. "Remember all those lonely nights you spent in your sleep cell thinking about me."

"Amata, stop it!"

"I bet you used to touch yourself and …"

"Amata, just stop and listen to me! I'm prepared to do what you ask; I mean to help the Vault. But there are conditions."

Amata paused, and Arta was shocked to see how quickly her eyes grew cold and calculating. "What conditions?"

"Firstly, I want you to release the rebels you've imprisoned." Some strength and self-control were returning to her voice.

"Oh, really?" Amata's look reminded Arta uncomfortably of Eulogy Jones. "And what else?"

Speaking in firmer tones, Arta said, "And I want you to start allowing people to leave the Vault."

Amata gave a serpentine smile. "Well," she said silkily. "Any other little favours I can do for you?"

"Only those."

"I see. As to the second, I'd already intended to allow some interaction, under strict conditions and supervision, of course. A sudden, mass exodus would be catastrophic, as I'm sure you can understand."

Arta nodded. "I can. However …"

"And as for releasing prisoners, I'll let Brotch go, if he agrees to recant. As the Vault's teacher, he's a valuable asset. But De Loria and Mack, no. It would undermine my authority too much, especially after they've confessed and been sentenced to execution."

"Execution!"

Amata raised her eyebrows at Arta's startled reaction. "Of course. It'll serve as a lesson to other rebels and, in any case, they deserve to die. I would've thought you'd agree after the way they treated you as a kid. Besides one's a useless hairdresser, the other a scheming, spoilt little bitch who'd have loved to take my job if I'd given her the opportunity."

"But that doesn't mean you can just order their deaths!"

Amata gave a satisfied smile. "But that's exactly what I _can _do, now that I'm Overseer. Arta don't you realise that I … that _we _no longer need to crawl, kowtow or give way to anyone. And it really could be 'we' if you join with me." Lowering her voice almost to a whisper, she continued, "Just think what its like to have that kind of power over people. You should've seen how it was, Arta. That pathetic little Tunnel Snake caved in almost straight away under interrogation. But the Mack girl provided a lot more entertainment. It took me a long time to break her down, and in the end she was screaming and begging for mercy." Amata sidled closer. "They're locked in the cells nearby. We could pay them a visit together."

"Amata, I don't …"

"Remember how Suzy totally humiliated you, Arta. You can pay her back now a hundred-fold. And I heard that Butch tried to rape you. We can make sure he never has the chance to use his titchy snake that way again. We can play with them as long as you like."

"But I don't want …

"When you look deep into your own feelings, you must realise we're two souls that are alike. We're meant to be together, Arta." Amata stole nearer.

_Two souls sprung from the one source … and together we are immortal, unstoppable._

Arta allowed Amata to come close, put her arms round her again. "All right, let's go to the guard station."

"I knew it! I knew you would understand! Arta, I've been longing to share this with you."

_In knowing yourself, you will know me also. _Hugging Amata to herself, Arta asked, "Who's head of security?"

"Hermann Gomez. He's too soft. As soon as I can, I'm gonna replace him by someone with more balls like Richards. But don't worry, Arta, we won't need any of them. This is gonna be all about us."

_Is there truth in dreams after all? _Gripping Amata more tightly, Arta said, "No, it isn't. This has got to stop."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to stop you, Amata. You're not fit to be Overseer. At least your father had some notion of protecting the Vault. You're nothing but a power-hungry sadist. There are people like you in the Wastes that like to 'play' with their victims; out there they call them Raiders.

You're never going to voluntarily give up power, so I'll have to make you. You'll step down in favour of Gomez. He's a good man: firm enough to keep control, and wise enough to make the necessary changes."

Amata broke violently from Arta's grip and stepped away from her. In icy tones, she said, "I'm disappointed in you, Arta. I thought you might've learnt something from surviving in the Wastes. I thought you'd be smarter."

"I'm happy to disappoint you. We may've been alike as kids. But we're far apart now. There's no way I'm gonna torture anyone out of revenge or spite, no matter what they've done. And I won't kill you either, unless you give me no alternative."

Amata threw back her head and laughed. "Kill me? What a ridiculous notion! Even if you had the guts, you're far too naïve. Do you think I hadn't anticipated that you might still be enamoured by those stupid, idealistic notions we had as children?" Edging away from Arta around the central desk, she shouted, "Guards!"

The office door slid open with a familiar pneumatic sound. Behind it stood two helmeted figures in Kevlar vests. Even behind the facemasks, Arta recognised them immediately: Richards and O'Brien, the guards who'd ruthlessly gunned down Tom and Mary Holden.

Her time in the Wastes allowed her to almost instantly assess the threat level. O'Brien was carrying a standard Beretta ten-millimetre pistol, which had virtually no chance of penetrating her combat armour unless it was aimed at a vulnerable spot. Richards, however, was armed with a pump-action shotgun, a weapon she'd seen used in the Wastes, though never by Vault security. At close range it could project a cloud of flying metal pellets that would rip into any exposed flesh, and might even tear right through several layers of armour. To make matters worse, she was no longer wearing her helmet.

Without issuing a challenge, and with no thought of surrender, she drew her smg and fired in one smooth motion. Richard's gloves, though made of ballistic cloth, were insufficient protection against the high-powered stream of bullets. He dropped the shotgun. The second burst from the clip smashed through his visor and into his brain.

Arta was already flinging herself sideways and behind the metal desk, presenting O'Brien with a moving target. The Vault guard had only time to squeeze off a couple of shots with the pistol, one missing, the other stopped by Arta's flak jacket. Once prone and in cover, she instantly re-loaded her weapon.

There was a crashing roar, followed by the Overseer's desk vibrating. O'Brien must have picked up the fallen shotgun and fired at it. But the large and solid piece of furniture acted as a perfect shield.

Arta heard Amata's voice. "Watch your fire, you clumsy oaf! Now, go and get her!"

Hesitant footsteps approached across the metal floor, then stopped. Arta waited calmly, crouching with her gun ready. Was he going to lean over or jump onto the desktop? Or circumnavigate it either side? Listening intently, she picked up a faint sound to the left, and angled her gun that way.

O'Brien sidestepped round the desk, the shotgun barrel pointing diagonally downwards. From behind the office chair, Arta fired directly at his head. He jerked back, his finger squeezing the trigger, the weapon discharging. Arta felt the pellets striking her armour, but the chair had absorbed the main impact, and none penetrated. Ten millimetre rounds ripped O'Brien's head from his shoulders and sent it spinning through the air like a baseball.

_That was for Tom and Mary._

"Drop the gun."

Arta froze at the sound of Amata's voice close behind her, followed by the sound of a weapon being cocked.

"Or I can shoot you in the back of the head. You know I can and _will _do it."

Arta let the smg fall with a clatter.

"Stand up. Turn around … slowly."

Arta complied and turned to face Amata. She was standing merely a dozen feet away, pointing a revolver unerringly at Arta's unprotected head. Arta recognised it as the same one Jonas had taught her to shoot with.

Amata advanced until she was within a body length of Arta, still aiming the revolver steadily. Her eyes gleamed with an intense excitement, and there was a manic smile on her face.

"I imagine you remember this gun. You once held it to _my _head. I have to say I far prefer it this way."

_How can someone so beautiful be so ugly inside? That's something which should no longer give me cause to wonder._

Arta said, "I should've realised that you never loved me, that you never could."

"Now you see it; too late to do you any good." Amata's smile broadened. "But you can still be my plaything, like you were before." Mockingly she blew Arta a kiss. "Suzy's been a good little toy, but now she's nearly broken. You'll do fine as a replacement."

"The sheriff of Megaton suspected that all Vaultees were crazy underneath. Maybe he wasn't far wrong."

"Oh, he most certainly wasn't. You've shown that by falling into my simple trap. Of course, I never intended to keep my side of the deal, once you'd brought me the things and people I wanted."

Arta nodded. "Yes, I probably am a bit mad. Though at least I didn't murder my own father."

Amata sucked air through her teeth. "It would've been more convenient if you'd saved me that task. Still there was far greater satisfaction in croaking the old bastard myself. I let him know just before the end who did it. After treating me like a child all those years, he realised at the last that I was no longer his sweet, obedient little girl." Shaking her head, she added, "I wondered if you suspected my intentions, but I guess you were always inclined to hesitate. And that's why you've lost."

Arta gave a strange smile. "Oh, I more than suspected. I knew. You see I really am an angel: the Angel of Death. And your father came to me, just like you will one day, maybe quite soon."

For a moment Amata could do nothing but stare at her, mouth agape, and the revolver wavered in her hand.

Arta kicked the wheeled chair into Amata's knees, forcing her to tilt forward and lose her balance. At the same time, she drew and ignited her sword, slashing at the extended right arm with the gun, severing it between the wrist and the elbow.

Amata looked in horror at the black, cauterised stump, shrieked and began to faint. Her eyes rolled up, and her body slumped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Arta caught her before she fell, bearing her up in her arms. She hastened to inject some med-x and a stimpak, examining Amata's pale face for signs of returning consciousness.

_You need to wake up. You've got a resignation speech to make._

* * *

"Oh, you came back!"

Arta wasn't sure which was the greater relief; the sun on her face or Clover's affectionate embrace. She just kept holding her, and let the feeling of both wash over her, as though purging herself from the darkness of the Underworld and its denizens.

"Good to see you, Artemesia." Leo's heart-felt rumble came from above. "And to your Vault friend also, welcome."

Clover had been too occupied to notice. Now she looked down to see a young man in a black leather jacket and blue jumpsuit cowering in the dust, his hands shielding his eyes from the light.

"Hey!" he croaked. "Is this Sun thing on all the time?"

Pressing her cheek against Clover's, Arta murmured, "Butch was always skipping Mr. Brotch's classes."

Once released from the cells, the Tunnel Snakes' leader had insisted he wanted to leave the Vault immediately. The new Overseer, Herman Gomez, had made little difficulty about losing a potential troublemaker, even though, like Amata, he intended to allow only gradual access to the Outside. Arta had accepted this policy as being sensible, especially as it accorded with the general view of the Vault citizens. Unlike Butch, most wanted to keep the Vault as their home, while also developing links with the Wasteland. But it seemed the long isolation of Vault 101 was over for good.

So Butch had been allowed to go, and Arta had to admit that he'd behaved towards her with rather more respect than she'd expected, and did not appear adversely effected by his ordeal. She had wondered though how he would cope with his first contact with the Outside.

Leo bent towards the afflicted youth, a pair of sunglasses held delicately between forefinger and thumb. "Here, take these," he said in kindly tones.

"Hey, thanks man!" Butch momentarily regained a measure of his usual jauntiness as he affixed the shades, allowing him to take a better look at his benefactor. "Whaaaat the fuck!" He wriggled desperately backwards on his bottom, stirring up clouds of dust.

"Butch, Butch, it's okay!" Arta released Clover, and reassuringly took hold of Leo's huge wrist. "See, he's friendly. He just happens to be a mutant."

"M, m … mutant?"

"A Supermutant, to be precise. Unfortunately most of them aren't as well disposed to normal humans as he is."

Looking at the quivering wreck before her, Clover said, "Maybe you ought've warned the poor bastard."

Arta giggled. "I couldn't resist waiting to see the look on his face. He's deserved that much payback at least."

Butch finally managed to collect himself and got to his feet, brushing dust from his Tunnel Snakes jacket. He adjusted it to display a more rakish look, and combed back his quiff.

"So, this is the _Waste_-land. It's … big and … kinda hot. And there's pretty ladies, as well as ugly mutants." Looking at Leo he added hastily, "No offence, man!"

"Really, its fine."

Extending a hand to Clover, Butch regained something of his usual devil-may-care attitude. "Maybe you'd like to join the new chapter of the Tunnel Snakes in the big outdoors. Hmm, come to think, it'll need a new name 'cause we won't be in Tunnels. Maybe, err, the … Ground Snakes? Nope. The Dirt Snakes? Better but … wait! The _Wasteland Snakes!_ Yeah, right on, that sounds totally cool!"

Ignoring the hand, Clover said to Arta, "This idiot jerk-off isn't gonna last half a day before something eats him."

"Hey! The Butchman eats, he don't get ate!"

Arta couldn't help laughing at the indignant and crestfallen expression on Butch's face. "He'll probably be okay given time to get his head together. You should've seen me when I first came out. We'll get him to the gates of Megaton at least."

Butch protested, "C'mon, you're not gonna just leave me in some one-horse town? You gotta teach me the ways of the Wastes, girl!"

Arta set her hands on her hips. "We're kinda busy to do that right now. You'll have to tag along. And we're on our way to a nest of fire-breathing ants."

Butch gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I didn't skip all my classes. I ain't worried about no ickle ants."

"These ants are big. A lot bigger than the ones you're thinking of."

"As big as radroaches?"

Clover pulled Arta aside. "No point scaring the shit out of him. Anyway, we might need to use him as ant bait. It looks about all he's good for."

"It might persuade him he'll be better off in Megaton … oh, all right! I guess he may be a bit safer with us."

"I doubt that, because we are two _dangerous _ladies, lover." Clover touched her gloved fist to Arta's own.

_How could I even have doubted where my heart lies?_ Gripping her fist, Arta said, "We are that. The most dangerous in the whole Wasteland."

Behind her Butch complained, "With all this dirt stuff, keeping my boots slick and shined's gonna be a nightmare!"

In a lower voice, Clover asked Arta, "So how did it go with the 'ex'?"

"Not very well. You could say we've severed all connections."

* * *

"How marvellous!" Dr Lesko exclaimed. "So you can actually get me access to these Brotherhood of Steel fellows' research facilities and technology?"

"No problem at all!" Arta said reassuringly. "Me and Elder Owyn Lyons, we're like that!" She held up her hand, fingers almost touching her thumb.

"Absolutely splendid!" The pale, be-spectacled geek looked fired with enthusiasm. "While I wouldn't normally waste my valuable time on such a simple request as you've made, I can certainly make an exception in these circumstances."

"That's good of you." Arta tried hard to keep the irony out of her voice, at the same time thinking, _what an infuriatingly smug, self-centred intelligent idiot! _She and Clover had arrived at his laboratory deep in the Marigold metro station, exhausted after five hours painstaking work sniping the fire ants outside in Grayditch, and even more dangerous encounters with those underground, using explosives to wreck their antennae and turn them against each other. Only to have Lesko deliver an enthusiastic but irritatingly patronising lecture.

"My experiments are of a complex nature and would take a scientist to explain … oh, wait! I'm a scientist! How marvellous!"

The clue to his location had been some computer records in his old shack near to Brian Wilks home. Ironically Arta's lies to Lieutenant Paul Wolfe about him being a mad scientist with an underground lab had been not so far from the truth. Lesko had explained the intention of his experiments was to induce a genetic change in ant eggs that would reduce the brood in size over several generations. Instead he'd inadvertently caused them to develop a fire-breathing mutation. Although he seemed sincere in wanting to benefit humanity, he displayed such an arrogant and unjustified confidence in his own ability it was not surprising things had gone so badly wrong. Furthermore the death and destruction caused were matters of indifference to him; he was still determined to press on relentlessly with his research. "At the cost of a few lives, future generations will be saved."

He now appeared breezily oblivious to any hint of sarcasm in Arta's words. "It is very good of me, isn't it? I'm prepared to make any necessary sacrifices in the cause of science. However I can't afford to risk my life unless it's absolutely unavoidable. So you'll have to help me with a few little problems first."

Clover began to say in a threatening tone, "What kind of problems?" but Arta shushed her.

Lesko spread his hands. "Unfortunately its too dangerous for me to leave my lab at the moment. However if you can get me access to my portable terminal in the Ant Queen's hatchery, I can send out an impulse which will destroy all the giant ants in Grayditch. Except for the Queen, of course. Its very important she's kept alive so I can continue my research, and improve my mutagen."

"The Ant Queen's hatchery!" Clover exclaimed. "And how big is she, may I ask?"

Lesko smiled complacently. "No bigger than you might expect. She's protected by a quintet of Nest Guardians: filthy little abominations, but no doubt you can deal with them somehow." Gesturing magnanimously towards his lab equipment, he added, "If you require a further incentive, I can induce a harmless mutation which will give you something of the strength, perception and fire resistance of a Grayditch ant!"

Looking worriedly at Clover, who was making throttling motions behind Lesko's back, Arta said, "We'll pass on that, if you don't mind. I'm sure we'll find some way to get you to your computer."

Lesko beamed. "How marvellous!"

* * *

Butch DeLoria was in a very uncertain and confused state of mind. This would have come as something of a surprise to his acquaintances, although Butch was in reality far less confident than his usual air of bravado suggested.

This Wasteland place had so far turned out much better and much worse than he'd anticipated. There were many inconveniences: the heat, the dust … especially the dust. There were dangerous creatures, like these god-awful fire ants, and the gigantic Supermutants (he shuddered at the thought of meeting an _unfriendly _one). On the other hand, surely anything was better than a lifetime of talking to the _same_ people and doing the _same _things?

He wished though that he'd got off to a better start with Arta and her companion. Admittedly after what had happened in the past a little awkwardness was understandable. But after saving his mom and rescuing him from prison, he'd hoped she'd forgiven his youthful misdeeds. He was, like, a grown man now, wasn't he?

Unfortunately neither of them had seemed susceptible to his charms, and Clover in particular treated him like something she'd found on her shoe. Okay so they had this girl-on-girl thing going, he could accept that. They could still let him in on the action. After all that time banged up in solitary, he was raging for some relief. If only he could've persuaded Suzy to leave with him. She would probably be so grateful for his protection, she'd finally let him ball her.

What was even more frustrating was that Arta had really blossomed into a super-hot chick! Albeit an extremely badass one. He'd often fantasized about possessing a woman with fire in her soul, but had to admit the downside was the danger of getting burnt. She'd cut that freak Amata's hand off, for Chrissakes!

Butch became slightly more cheerful as he reflected that he'd already managed to make one new friend, even if there was no prospect of sexual relations (and the thought was frankly disgusting). Leo, he'd decided, was a real cool guy. Once he'd got his head round the Supermutant's alarming appearance, they'd got on famously. Leo seemed sympathetic to his concerns, was always ready to be helpful and actually took an interest in him personally. He'd already taught Butch more useful things about the outside world in a day than Brotch had in years. And he was a handy man … or mutant … to have around in other ways too. He was so strong, and seemed practically impervious to harm.

So he hadn't minded at all when Arta and Clover had left him outside with Leo while they'd gone to find Dr Lesko in the underground tunnels. Even if it meant Clover giving him the putdown yet again.

"We can't afford to have someone blundering around with us in these kind of narrow spaces."

"Yeah, I can see that," he'd replied airily. "I mean Leo is going on ten foot tall. He's bound to stick out."

"I wasn't referring to him," she'd retorted.

Grayditch was a sinister looking place, to be sure, and not one he'd normally want to hang around in. The silent streets, the burned out and still burning vehicles, the empty buildings with broken windows like eyes looking at him; frankly it gave him the creeps. But Leo still managed to make the time go quickly, telling him about the most famous Wasteland settlements. Megaton was one of the biggest and nearest, though Butch figured that people who lived round an atomic bomb also ought to be about the craziest. He was intrigued however to hear Leo's description of Rivet City, which he'd visited as a young man before he became a mutant. It was some kinda huge boat thing _that actually floated on the water. _How cool was that? Butch remembered hearing stories as a child about pirate ships that went around grabbing treasure and beautiful maidens. Okay, maybe Rivet City wasn't quite like that; for one thing it never moved. But still … Leo said it was about the safest place in the Wasteland, and spoke with affection about a bar called _The Muddy Rudder. _Butch could already see himself hanging around there, supping beer and maybe doing a little barbering. Not hairdressing. There was a difference.

The pleasant anticipation of these thoughts was interrupted by Leo saying suddenly, "My friend, you must hide immediately!"

"Hey, what's up man?"

"A group of my brothers approaches. If they find you, they will most likely want to kill you or take you away to become one of them. Hide until I can convince them to move on."

Butch looked in the direction of the Supermutant's pointing finger, and registered that several creatures of similar appearance were approaching from the end of the street, moving at a slow lumber and carrying a miscellany of formidable looking weapons. Sweat gathered on his brow. So that was how Leo had become a mutant! Becoming one himself would be taking friendship too far! He cast round desperately for somewhere to hide, then spotted a strange cylindrical object nearby, metallic and about the height of a man. Perfect if he could get the door open.

"Hurry, my friend!"

Butch punched hopefully at a large button. The door slid back with a hiss. Gasping with relief, Butch slipped inside, and found the mechanism which closed it again. Darkness fell, and he groped to find a light switch. Then he jumped a mile as a voice spoke behind him.

"Who are you?" It was high and somewhat quavery, but Butch wasn't reassured by that.

He asked, "Who the hell are _you_?"

"I'm the ghost of Bryan Wilks," the voice replied. "And if you don't answer me, I'll curse you."

_This is like totally freaky!_ Trying to avoid gulping in terror, Butch managed, "Butch DeLoria, from Vault 101. And who was Bryan Wilks when he was alive?"

He thought he heard an exhaled breath just behind him, and shivered. The voice said, matter-of-factly, "He was a small boy who died tragically, and now wants revenge on people that are still alive."

"Hey, hey, listen!" Butch pleaded. "I may not've lived my life all that well, but I ain't never done nuthin' to harm a littl'un. Kids are all right as far as I'm concerned."

"Do you swear that?" the voice asked.

"I absolutely do swear it!"

Butch heard a sigh. Then the voice said, "The light switch is right in front of you, about chest height."

Butch felt with his hand, pressed and suddenly found himself within a cylinder of light. He looked down and jumped again. A small boy was standing right next to him in the confined space. His face was dirty, his hair and clothes unkempt. He did not look like he was dead, and his skin was tanned rather than pale.

Regarding him quizzically, the boy said, "You're another of those people with snakes on your back. How come?"

"W …wait," Butch spluttered. "You mean … you've seen someone like me before?"

The boy nodded solemnly. "Her name was Arta. She had a black jacket and a blue suit like yours. I thought she was the Angel of Death, but I guess I was wrong about that."

"Arta? You know her?" Butch said unbelievingly.

"Yeah. She wanted to take me away to somewhere safe, but I hadta stay here in case my dad comes back."

"She wanted to take you away?" Butch repeated. He let out a breath. "You're not a ghost at all, are you?"

The boy looked at him from beneath long eyelashes. "How old are you, Butch?"

"I'm just past nineteen."

"You're nineteen and you're still afraid of ghosts? What kind of cowardly dumb-arse are you?"

* * *

Arta said, "I can't believe we managed that."

"Neither can I," Clover agreed.

"A straightforward scientific procedure." Weston Lesko asserted. "My sub-sonic impulse scrambled the fire ants' antennae, causing them to frenzy and destroy each other. Quite simple really." He drew a breath. "I must say its quite bracing to be outside after being so long underground."

They had emerged from the Marigold station into the red light of sunset. Nearby two ants lay motionless and locked together, charred by their own fire.

Clover said, "It certainly looks like it's worked. Though there must be at least one berserk ant left running around without another ant to kill."

Arta said to Lesko, "But I still can't understand why the Queen Ant didn't attack you. She certainly got pretty mad at us."

The Nest Guardians had proved susceptible to the same tactics they'd used against the lesser ants. But the gigantic Ant Queen was at the back of a dank cavern with a narrow entrance, and began to squirt a noxious looking fluid as soon as they got near. As Lesko had insisted they must leave her unharmed, the most they could do was try to distract her attention. Fortunately a side passage led behind her to where a stalactite forest created almost the effect of a barred window, too small for her to get through.

Even so they'd been astonished to see Lesko walk calmly into the grotto, seat himself at his computer terminal and begin work. The Ant Queen took no more notice of him than his Protectron robot, which patrolled up and down without being molested.

Clover asked, "So c'mon Lesko, how did you manage it?"

Pausing to polish his glasses on the sleeve of his lab coat, Lesko carefully replaced them, and stared back at her owlishly.

"Non-threatening body language," he said.

"Uh-huh, right," Clover said. She frowned. "What …" she began.

Further enquiry into the mystery was interrupted by a glad shout from Arta. Three figures were approaching down the slope of the ruined street, their shadows running long before them. The one on the right was extremely tall, the one in the middle of medium height for a human, and the other, who held the middle one's hand, merely the size of a young child.

"Bryan!" Arta exclaimed in delight. She rushed forward to pluck him off the ground and into her arms. Squeezing him close, she said, "Oh, I thought you were dead!"

Struggling to breathe, the small boy coughed, "Yeah, so did I. You fixed the ants then?"

"With a little help from Dr Lesko." Arta put him back down, and planted a kiss on his forehead beneath the curling locks. "So how've you been? Are you hungry or thirsty?"

"Yeah, but you get used to it."

Glaring at Butch, Clover said, "You haven't bothered to feed the poor little bugger?"

Butch held up his hands. "No need to thank me for finding him in the first place!"

Bryan was looking Arta up and down. "You've got a sword now."

"Yes."

"Is it a flaming one?"

"Well … yes, it is." Inclining her head.

"Does that mean that you're the Angel of Death, after all?"

Arta crouched down until she was at Bryan's height, put a hand on each of his shoulders. "I don't know, Bryan," she said sadly.

He watched her for a while longer with his large, luminous eyes. "It's all right," he said. "As long as you're a good person, it doesn't matter."

Arta hugged him again, glancing up at Leo. The Supermutant said almost apologetically, "We should be leaving. My brethren may return to occupy this area now that the fire ants are gone."

Arta turned back to Bryan. "We have to go. And you have to come with us. It'll be even more dangerous than before."

With a sniff, the boy said, "But my dad …"

Arta looked up again, this time at Clover, who nodded.

Very gently, the Vault woman said, "Bryan, we found the bodies of two men in the metro. One of them had one of those dog tags soldiers wear, which gave his name as William Brandice. The other …"

"Was my dad, right? The fuckin' ants killed him."

Arta pulled the sobbing boy tight to her. Lesko coughed impatiently, and Clover treated him to a withering look of contempt, but the scientist seemed merely puzzled by the display of emotion.

After a minute or so, Bryan stopped crying. Holding his tear-stained face close to Arta's, he said determinedly, "You showed him the way, didn't you? When you came for my dad, you showed him the way to get to heaven."

Her eyes wet, Arta said, "Yes, Bryan, I showed him the way."

* * *

Jericho staggered along one of Megaton's raised metal walkways, weaving an eccentric path from one side to the other, and nearly overbalancing the outer rail. Even by his standards he really was astoundingly drunk. Alcohol levels in his blood that would make many individuals fall over normally hardly effected him. So when he was in this state he knew he'd imbibed something gargantuan. Something damn near lethal. He could almost feel how close he was to death.

_The little bitch's prediction has almost come true. _'A sad disappointed old man', how those words continued to sting him, plunging the iron into his soul so that he was hardly able to function any more, was trapped in a spiral of drinking himself into oblivion. The only relief had been his unexpected sexual coupling with Jenny. And how fucked up that was! She used him like he was some kind of nasty addiction she couldn't shake; there was nothing like real affection going on. Nothing like he'd had with Kilshandra … or with Arta. And he really didn't want to think about her at all. Somehow she'd survived, and must hate him. Just like Katrina would when she found out, if she was still alive. What was the point of bringing her here now, of even trying to save this shit-heap? Let it all blow to hell!

By the kind of homing instinct drunks have, he'd managed to wend his way to his shack. Now at last he could collapse inside, pass out and escape from his horrible existence for a while. He was about to push the door, which he no longer bothered to lock, when he noticed that a sheet of paper was pinned to it with, of all things, a knife.

A dagger with a blue handle, carved with three letters.

Some kind of sobriety tried to impose itself in his brain, and he grabbed at the weapon to pull it out. The note fell down and he bent clumsily to pick it up, then frantically held it up to read.

Only two words were written.

_'Keep it'._

He stared at the dagger, at the letters on it, then again at the paper with its terse message of renunciation.

"No!" He brushed angrily at the tears welling unstoppably from his eyes. "It was for you I did it. Can't you understand that? You … you're the only …"

He stopped abruptly, blinking through vision doubly blurred. By the door of the empty house near his own, someone was standing quietly, wearing the robes of a wanderer of the Wastes, the hood drawn over his or her face.

"Who …?" He lurched towards the cloaked figure, trying to bring it into focus. "Is it … is it you?" He waved the dagger in the air before him. "Take that off and show me who you are!"

The hood fell back.

He stared at the nightmarish vision revealed: a face almost completely skeletal apart from a few shreds of flesh and wisps of hair clinging to its withered brow, its bulging lidless eyes fixed upon him.

He felt his neck and chest muscles contract, so that he had to struggle for breath. He tried to back away, but the horrifying pop-eyed gaze of the apparition seemed to root him to the spot, while an icy chill crept over his limbs.

"So you've finally come for me, have you?"

As though in answer, the blade of the dagger flashed in the moonlight. Katrina had always kept it very sharp.

"Oh, so that's what you want me to do, is it? Slit my own throat? Yeah, that figures. You've got me feeling like a worthless piece of shit and then, when I'm thinking it can't get any worse, you make her send this back to me. Think you're very clever, don't ya? You couldn't get me with all the bullets and bombs in the world, so instead you're gonna dry-gulch me, get me when I'm weak. You cunning, cunning bastard!"

He stopped panting for breath, again waved the dagger in the figure's face.

"But you're gonna have to do a lot better than that, arsehole. You know what this means? It means she's alive. And that's all that matters to me right now. You figured I was such an evil cunt, that I wouldn't care about her unless she cared about me. But you're totally fucking wrong."

He flicked the knife forward, so that it thudded into the door frame close to his antagonist's head. It stood unflinching and motionless as a statue.

"So you're gonna have to try all over again some other time. And I'll be ready and waiting for when you do, you lousy prick." Lurching towards the rail, he vomited over it. "And don't think I'm gonna fall and break my neck either. I know the way home." With a final effort, he staggered towards his shack door, half-fell through, and slammed it behind him.

The living skeleton remained standing a while, then pulled up its hood and turned to leave.

"Hey, Quinn!" a voice croaked. "You okay?"

The hooded figure paused. "Yeah, could be worse. Damn crazy smoothskins! The sooner we can leave this shithole and get back to Underworld, the better. Whatever we're gonna see here, it'd better be fucking worth it."

* * *

Arta finished tapping at the computer keyboard, leaned back in her chair, and placed her hands behind her head. She was yawning and stretching herself when Clover entered the bedroom.

"Bryan's about ready to fall asleep. You wanna put him to bed?"

"Sure, I'm all done here." After a pause, she said, "I think Brandice was Enclave."

"No fucking kidding!"

"Its here on his computer. He says about recognising the patriotic music on the radio, and worries that 'they' could be on this coast too. Looks like he might've been some kind of deserter. Bryan said he never liked to talk about his past."

Clover said, "So perhaps the Enclave does exist after all."

"Yeah. And maybe it's not so friendly."

Clover shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Nobody much likes deserters, do they?"

"True, but there's the question of why he left in the first place."

They stopped talking abruptly as Butch came in.

"Yo, ladies! Seeing as it's near sleepy time and the Brandices' old _hacienda_ is a little short on beds, I thought we three might snuggle down together and …"

Wearing her sourest expression, Clover said sharply, "Butch, let me explain something to you …"

"Okay, okay, I get the message. The Butchman abides anyway." Butch held up his hands, and addressed Arta. "Well, it's gonna be a big day in Megaton tomorrow. Everyone ought to smarten up, I'm thinking. And it so happens you've got a professional barber amongst you."

Arta self-consciously brushed her shag of hair, which was somewhat below its usual collar-length. "I guess a bit of a trim wouldn't go amiss."

"Absolutely!" Butch enthused. "I'm gonna barber the hell out of you! Have you considered something a little more wavy?"

"On second thoughts, why don't you start on Clover?"

Reading Clover's grim look aright, Butch said hastily, "Well, yeah, maybe I'll try giving Dr. Lesko a quick cut first. Just to show you a sample of my most excellent work."

"You do that." After Butch had gone, Clover added, "He's right though. It's gonna be a helluva big day."

"The biggest."

"Maybe we should sleep some more and have sex less."

"We-el …"

* * *

*_Return to the Underworld: _ despite the confusing associations in Fallout, I preferred this title to _Trouble on the Home Front_, which would rather cosily and incorrectly imply the Vault was Arta's chosen place of abode. Was going to be called _Return to the Abyss, _until I decided that might conjure up an image of James Cameron in a diving bell. Now try thinking of Kate Beckinsale in a skin-tight catsuit instead.

_There is safety in mindfulness: _This is one of Fawkes' sayings, although Uncle Leo seems to share his 'Zen' attitude. Mindfulness, as I understand it, is awareness of the present moment.

_Pump-action shotgun: _there are none in the Vault so far as I know, but it's a typical police weapon that they might have in their arsenal somewhere.

_Rivet City: _To be honest I find it a little hard to see why Butch would want to go there rather than Megaton. For a 'rebel without a cause' it's a well-regulated society with guards everywhere, enclosed, dirty and smelly; a bit too much like the Vault he's escaped from. It probably is safer, but he has to travel halfway across the Wasteland to reach it! So I gave him another suitably dumb reason.

_Quinn:_ maybe he's rather more friendly and gregarious with respect to 'smoothskins' than portrayed here. But I wasn't able to think of any other named ghoul that would suit, except Crowley. And I couldn't quite see him wearing a hoody.

Apologies for the usual delays; I didn't intend _TOTHF_ to be so detailed, or for Butch to leave, and this spilled over into making _Those _longer still.

It's now (fanfare) over _two years_ since I started publishing _Wastelander_. It's a lot of time to spend on a single story, but at least I can be reassured by the numbers of people that have been kind enough to read it, either partway or all the way through. Thanks to both, and especially to those who've reviewed as well!*


	36. Wastelander

Ch 36 Wastelander

Jericho met the backward thrust of Jenny's buttocks with his own firm, forward pressure, building up to a steady rhythm that maintained the mutually pleasurable friction between them. _We're so much in sync: just keeping on keeping on, and jees does it feel good!_ Even when it seemed to lack real tenderness, sex with Jenny was always wild. Her cool, restrained exterior concealed a raging inner fire which would flare into life whenever their bodies joined together. Her hands gripped the end of the bed tightly, and she was moaning like a brahmin in heat.

And that was why this particular coupling had something special about it. Rather than the more discreet backroom of the Water Purifier, it was happening in Jericho's own shack, in his own bed. Not the cleanest of beds, it was true. Even Old Walter's, which they avoided using mainly out of respect, had less in the way of unmentionable stains, bugs and odours. But this was the first time they'd had sex at Jericho's place, and that had to mean something.

It had happened in a strange fashion. After the complete blackout following his encounter with Death, (which he now realised was not quite what it had appeared), he'd woken at some time around midnight to find Jenny hovering over him with an expression of concern, rapidly turning to relief. He felt more than usually weak, but she'd waited patiently while he threw up again and relieved himself. Then she'd given him some water to drink, and quietly prepared some mutfruit for him to eat. She'd watched him while he ate, without speaking, which had embarrassed him at first. Eventually though he'd found a kind of comfort in her silent presence. When he'd felt the urge to sleep again, she had lain down quite deliberately beside him, snuggling up like a child.

He'd slept several hours more, and waking, found her right there next to him. With sudden urgency, she'd parted the front of her jumpsuit, fervently demanding for him to reach inside with his hands, his mouth. He'd burrowed into her, finding the warmth and softness of her breasts, like an animal searching for comfort and sanctuary.

And then they'd made love over and over.

The build-up of pleasure was becoming too much to sustain. Knowing he had to release soon, he grasped her breasts from behind and drove several times deep within her. He could feel and hear her coming just before he did: sweet, involuntary cries. And as always he withdrew, sending long ropes of semen over her back and thighs. Not a very effective way of preventing pregnancy, by any means, but better than nothing in a world where most women's fertility diminished quickly after their early teens, and contraceptives were hard to come by.

Once they'd relaxed against each other, and collapsed onto the bed, Jericho was left feeling awkward again. He _was _at home, so couldn't very well leave. And Jenny was showing no signs of wanting to. Instead, she very gently slid her hand across his chest, ruffling the hairs, then reached up to feel the rough stubble of his chin, finally turning it with precision so that she could kiss him on the mouth, lightly to begin with, then with increasing passion. And he, astonished, just let her because, amidst all their acts of carnality, this was by far the most intimate moment between them.

After a while, they began to talk, at first without any focus or direction, but with less of the inhibitions that had restricted them before. Somehow the rambling, randomness of the conversation made them feel more comfortable with each other.

Eventually he asked her: "Does this mean you ain't ashamed of me anymore?"

"I don't know. Maybe it means I'm not ashamed of myself."

"Why the hell should you be?"

"I guess … because of the way I feel. Because of my desires."

"Look, Jen. That ain't nothing to worry on. You feel how you feel. It's when you try to deny it that things get twisted up the wrong way."

"Maybe you're right. But tell me: why are you drinking yourself near to death? Is it because _you _feel ashamed?"

He smiled, looked up at her suddenly. "Touche. That's exactly why. And if you're gonna say something like 'physician heal yourself', well I fucking wish I could."

And so the talk had gone on, until the first grey light began to show faintly through the shack walls.

With apparent indifference, she remarked. "Dawn's up, and I gotta go soon. Today your little Vault slut's coming back to perform heaven knows what miracles. Did nobody tell her that a prophet seldom gets any credit in her own town?"

He saw the bait, but couldn't resist rising to it. "I don't reckon she's mine any more. I do know you oughtn't to bad mouth her like that, whether she's welcome here or not."

She met his glare levelly, a cool smile on her lips. "And why the fuck shouldn't I? If you'd heard the stories I have about her, you'd think I was being civil."

He tried to avoid getting drawn deeper in. "People listen to a helluva lot of stuff that ain't so."

"Okay, but usually if there's smoke, there's fire. Surely you didn't think she was some kind of Vault virgin, pure as the driven snow before you dirtied her?" He shrugged, and she went on. "Not only was she not exclusively yours, she's not even exclusively straight. I _know _she's been with Nova. She would've gone with Lucy too if she'd let her. And that was just her first day here." She looked at him mockingly. "Heaven knows who she'd let fuck her when she was desperate for caps. She was at _Moriarty's_ long enough for that old pervert to have had his way with her." Grinning. "Maybe even Gob got a piece of her arse before he bit the dust!"

"Get outa here!" He couldn't prevent his reaction, and immediately regretted it.

"Sure, it's more than high time. Gonna have a busy day serving all the kibitzers waiting for water to be turned into wine. Or maybe the other way round."

He wanted her to say something like 'See you later'. But she didn't. Just put on her damn yellow suit and left him to stew. _Why do I keep fucking up? Just when we were beginning to get on._ Female jealousy and distrust of reprobates like himself ran deep, and he ought to have allowed for it. It wasn't as though he hadn't called Arta some bad words himself.

But he hadn't been able to stop himself leaping to her defence, even when he knew it would rile Jenny. Because in the end he couldn't bear to hear her mangle the truth in that way, despite his own accusations of betrayal when he'd abandoned Arta. There was something about the Vault woman that all the filth, corruption and greed of the Wasteland couldn't taint, a simple purity of spirit, even a kind of innocence. If she had become truly at home in his world, then it was without losing that essential part of herself.

He lay back and closed his eyes wearily. _And that's why I miss her._

* * *

The noise of the wind was loud in his ears. It was blowing all around him, above, in front, behind, but especially beneath. He could feel it there, bearing him up, as though he were flying.

He _was_ flying.

The ground was far beneath him, a great, slow moving landscape transformed by height and distance. Hills, ridges and valleys were black creases within the vastness of a white, moonlit plain; roads and bridges ran like ribbons, buildings were tiny rectangles clustered tightly together. The moon itself was above and slightly to the left, occasionally obscured by dark streamers of clouds, wisps of which sometimes enveloped and surrounded him in his passage through the air. Above the wind was another rushing sound, as of mighty pinions beating, each slow powerful flap in time with the rhythm of his heart.

All at once, the wing beat ceased, and he was gliding swiftly downwards, a ruined town on his left and the white span of a bridge ahead, surging up towards him with frightening speed, the skirl of the wind whistling past …

He was once more at the edge of the broken bridge, close to the place where he had left Arta and Clover bound. The site of the battle. The site of his betrayal. It was dark and the wind continued its banshee howl. For the first time, he realised he was naked, and shivered with the cold.

He looked up and beheld Arta herself standing alone on the section of the bridge they'd been unable to jump to. She was dressed all in black, not in her combat armour but some kind of flowing robes. The hood was flung back, so that he could see her face clearly. She seemed to be saying something, but he was unable to make out the words, as though she were mouthing silently. Then she held out her hand as if beckoning to him.

With almost no awareness that he was doing anything remarkable, he stepped forward automatically, his eyes fixed on her. He had taken a dozen paces before he realised that there was no concrete highway beneath his feet.

There was nothing.

For a sickeningly giddy moment he looked down at the drop, and flailed with his hands and feet. Then he looked back at Arta. She was much closer now, and her eyes caught and held him. They seemed different from usual, oddly flecked with gold amidst the blue.

Keeping his gaze focused only on her, he continued to walk forward. As he drew nearer he became increasingly aware of the pale golden light that glowed deep within her eyes. They no longer looked quite human. Still he kept walking until he stood beside her. She did not speak, and her expression remained serene. He did not feel self-conscious about being naked in front of her, but couldn't stop shivering.

Finding his voice with difficulty, he said, "I'm cold."

She reached down to grasp the hem of her robe, and pulled it upwards. He saw she was completely nude beneath it. She shrugged off the dark material entirely, and he was left awestruck at the sight. She had never appeared more beautiful, her body with its womanly parts perfect and without flaw, her pale skin shining a pure white in the moonlight. Involuntarily he found his manhood rising erect, the warmth beginning to spread throughout his body.

Amusement showed in her eyes, laughter that was almost human. She silently handed him the robe. He put it on, feeling incongruous in the priest-like apparel.

She turned slightly away from him, showing the exquisite perfection of her rear. Then she stretched her arms forwards and upwards as though extending a gesture of welcome to the heavens. The wind that had been tearing hither and thither instead blew icy blasts straight towards her, but she did not flinch. Above her dark clouds raced across the sky, seeming to cluster more thickly directly overhead. Suddenly a jagged flash of lightning tore the sky in half, and the bridge seem to rock as the thunder rolled around. He realised then that in her right hand was a rod of fire, upraised straight to the heavens despite the shrieking winds, as though she held the storm and the vault of the sky itself under her command.

The lightning flared again, and this time the thunder broke with sheets of rain, descending to sting their faces and drench them to the skin. He could feel it bouncing from his skull, dripping from his beard, could see it streaming over her naked form, could hear everywhere the trickling of the life giving water.

It continued for a while in a steady stream, then stopped.

Jericho opened his eyes. He was lying naked on his bed, and it was full daylight. In a corner of his room, a girl of about sixteen was squatting over a bucket, the one he used (mostly) to urinate in. Her trousers were in a loose pile around her ankles. When she noticed he was awake, a faint flush coloured her thin face, which might have been moderately pretty underneath all the dirt.

She said hastily, "Whoops, sorry! When you gotta go, you gotta!" Getting to her feet and hurriedly pulling up her pants: "All done now."

Jericho's surprise turned rapidly to complete embarrassment, as he became aware of his enormous erection, which was plainly visible and impossible to ignore.

Trying to look at it sidelong, the girl said, with an attempt at disarming humour, "Looks like you've been having quite a dream!" She swallowed and licked her lips nervously. "Well, I guess I'll be on my way, don't want to miss the main event!" Then, with a sudden, hopeful smile, "Unless there's anything you'd like me to do for you before …"

"No, just get the fuck out!" Jericho snatched for something to drape over his privates.

"Okay, no problemo, I'm making like the thunderbolt, pronto." The girl backed rapidly towards the door. She added, while working the latch, "Have yourself a real _special_ day!"

* * *

As the late morning sun blazed down from almost directly overhead, every single one of Megaton's temporary and permanent residents was within its walls. Most were still exposed to the merciless rays, as they packed every available terrace and vantage point, making the town with its spiralling structure resemble a vast amphitheatre. The parallel continued in the air of anticipation flowing through the crowded masses, each individual hoping to witness something quite astonishing, or at least entertaining. Excited conversation mingled with disgruntled muttering, indicating that the mood could easily turn unpleasant should such expectations be disappointed. Perhaps it was with this in mind that Sonora Cruz's Regulators had taken up positions providing a strategic overview, and were holding their rifles unslung.

As the hour appointed for the 'miracle' approached, even the buzz of speculation and murmurs of discontent began to die away. Wastelanders of high status and low, well to do and destitute, mercenary and public spirited, sceptical and credulous were waiting like expectant children for something extraordinary to happen. With minutes to go before noon, the whir of the giant fan which drove the opening mechanism of Megaton's gate could be heard, and a collective sighing of indrawn, bated breaths. Slowly the main doors opened wide, and through them came a procession, of sorts.

In front, walking at an easy pace, were two women, one dark-haired, the other blonde. The latter was dressed and equipped in typical mercenary fashion: full combat armour combined with a high-grade Chinese assault rifle. The brunette was of more notable appearance. She carried a long, black sniper rifle and a sheathed sword of unusual design. Under a leather jacket emblazoned with a writhing snake, she wore a faded blue jumpsuit with the numerals 101 displayed in gold lettering. Both women had nicely trimmed and styled hair, and their gear had been buffed to a fine sheen.

Following directly behind them came a young man wearing a jumpsuit and a jacket that were near identical to the woman's, except for being in far better condition. His hair was brushed back in a distinctive pompadour style, and he was holding the hand of a boy about eight years old, dressed in the ragged clothing of a Wasteland urchin, but with a well-scrubbed and shining face. Two men and a heavily laden brahmin brought up the rear of the column almost ten paces further back. One was well known to most Wastelanders: the junk trader known as Crazy Wolfgang, curly-haired and somewhat sardonic. The other no one recognised, though his white lab coat, spectacles and scholarly air were strongly suggestive of a scientific background.

The final remarkable aspect to the procession was that the brahmin Wolfgang led was draped not with panniers containing his usual 'pick of the litter', but the armour and battle standards of several Raider clans, overlaid with rows of gleaming rifles marked with the signature bird claw flash of Talon Company. As though to further give the semblance of a trophy display, strings of polished human skulls hung from the brahmin's sides.

Despite the strange appearance of this beast of burden, the gaze of most of the crowd fell on the woman in the Vault suit. To those who had known her from when she first arrived in Megaton, it seemed her countenance was much changed. That she should have developed the 'thousand yard stare' of the Wasteland wanderer was only to be expected: the look of one who'd experienced too much suffering, and seen too many deaths. But far more striking was the impression that behind the grey-blue eyes of thoughtful intelligence was some hidden passion, some inner fire held barely in check. A passion that spoke directly to the soul. _Believe._ _Believe that your salvation is at hand. _This feeling might merely have been in the imagination of the onlookers, though it was almost universally experienced. Perhaps there was some link with the miraculous tales being related about the woman's sheathed weapon: the flaming sword of the Angel of Death.

The odd procession reached the pen near the bottom of the crater, and halted while Wolfgang tethered his brahmin. He opened one of its saddlebags, and took out a small silver suitcase, laying it down almost reverently beside the pen. Then he, the scientist, the young man and the boy shuffled aside, leaving the women standing by themselves. After a brief pause, the dark-haired one in the Vault suit took several paces forward, and spoke in a clear, ringing tone.

"People of the Wasteland, my name is Artemesia Wendell! Many of you will have already listened to my radio broadcast. I am here to show you the promised sign of hope, and to tell you of a great danger which must be averted. I will begin with the danger.

Some of you have heard rumours of a plot to explode the atomic bomb that for years has remained like a dormant but active volcano at the heart of Megaton. These rumours are true."

She picked up the silver case, rested it on the brahmin pen, and opened it. "This is a detonator capable of exploding the bomb and killing every man, woman and child present here today." There was a collective, horrified gasp. "But don't be alarmed. I've no intention of activating it, and will now give it into the hands of Sheriff Simms, who'll allow it to be examined by anyone with an interest in such technology." She glanced significantly in the direction of the guard of Brotherhood warriors surrounding the scarlet-robed scribe, and the group of metal-clad Outcasts. "Or by anyone who doubts our good faith. And as a further sign of that I present to you Dr. Weston Lesko, a scientist. In a short time, Dr. Lesko will disarm the bomb, rendering it harmless aside from emitting a moderate level of radioactivity. He assures me he can do this in complete safety, and …" she nodded to Confessor Cromwell "without removing the atomic core which many here revere." The Confessor responded with a benign gesture.

Lesko seemed to be enjoying the attention, and was bowing and smiling fawningly in all directions, but especially in the direction of Scribe Rothchild. Arta had only convinced the selfishly obsessed scientist to help by pretending she could get him access to Brotherhood technology. Now it looked like she'd have to fix things with Rothchild … but that could wait. She refocused her attention and raised her voice.

"However bringing Dr Lesko to perform this service on Megaton's behalf is not the only reason for my presence here. I've brought someone else to speak to you, to give you a message that even the greatest of the challenges facing us in the Capital Wasteland can be overcome. He has not yet shown himself because many of you will regard him as an implacable foe. Those who think that are mistaken, but lest you should doubt my words, I must advise you that Sheriff Simm's Regulators have orders to shoot anyone drawing a weapon. Please remain calm, and no one will come to any harm."

Arta hesitated, recalling her conversation with Agatha before leaving her house. _You may think we're taking an unnecessary risk for the sake of a piece of theatre. But we have to take that chance to get people to pay attention. _

She gave a signal to Stockholm, perched high in his sniper's nest. The gates of Megaton opened for a second time.

A huge Supermutant stood outside. His amber, slightly oily skin glistened in the bright sunshine, showing up the powerful, corded muscles. His bared, whitened teeth gleamed like polished ivory, and his bald, hairless scalp almost brushed the lintel of the doorway. It took only a few strides of his massive, pillar-like legs for him to cross the threshold entirely.

Never in the memory of anyone present, scarcely even in the memory of legend or story, had such a creature entered the precincts of the well-defended town. This time the gasps of horror were followed by a murmuring sound, growing gradually louder, as though all of the collective fear, anger and hatred of the crowd was flooding out. Arta could sense everywhere hands moving towards weapons in an instinctive reaction to the sight of humanity's most bitter foe. She remained poised to speak, noting how Sonora Cruz's Regulators, and Megaton's two snipers were frantically scanning the crowd, looking for signs of the almost universal hostility turning to violence.

But once through the gates, which began to close behind him, the Supermutant came to an abrupt halt. He stood, hands hanging loosely at his sides, as though to emphasise their emptiness. Something in that stance spoke of calm acceptance, of endless patience, of grace under pressure. His head very slowly turned to take in tier upon tier of watching Wastelanders. Those close enough to look into the deep-set, slanted eyes imagined they could sense there a profound reflection on the many mysteries and ironies of life. As the mutant continued to gaze upon them, the muttered menaces of the crowd grew less and less, until they had died away all together, and a deep silence reigned throughout.

Having apparently brought those watching under the spell of his presence, the creature moved forwards with deliberation, heading straight towards the bomb crater at the heart of Megaton. As he reached it, the disciples of Atom fell back on either side, and Confessor Cromwell himself stepped out of the pool, showing with a gesture that he was allowing the Supermutant to take the place he had occupied for so long.

The mutant slowly waded out into deepest part of the water, and paused, squinting up into the blinding rays of the sun as though looking there for inspiration, or waiting for the blessing of heaven to descend. Then resting one massive hand on the bomb, as a preacher giving a sermon leans on his lectern, he began to speak.

Few of those who heard him were in aftertimes able to recall exactly what was said. Chiefly they remembered the calm yet passionate tone, the sense of sad yearning mingled with the promise that hopes might be fulfilled, the radiation of an aura of friendship, trust and peace. Most of all, the extraordinary effect of experiencing such oratory from such a speaker.

Yet none of them would ever forget the first four words of the speech, delivered with a thunderous force and conviction that seemed almost divine sent, and repeated with ever greater urgency and power.

"_I have a dream …"_

* * *

The scavenger hauling his farting brahmin through the town gates had the sun-browned, burned out appearance of one who had spent much of his life in the deep Wastes. The kind who looked on most of the happenings in places such as Megaton with a philosophical calm after the living hell which was his daily existence. But he'd certainly never seen anything quite as remarkable as this. It appeared as though half the Wasteland had turned up, filling every available space. Even the town's whores seemed to have been given leave to come out and rubberneck.

He tied up his brahmin at the central pen, and strolled over to where Nova was standing with Lucy West, leaning her head gently upon her younger companion's shoulder. They were watching a crowd of excited, cheering Wastelanders thronging round a woman in a blue and gold Vault suit.

Puffing on the fag end of his smoke, he asked casually, "So what's the big fuss about, Nov'? All these folks come out here to gawp at one wimpy little Vault girl?"

Nova reached out to pull the cigarette from the man's lips, taking a long, relaxed drag on what remained. She exhaled nonchalantly into the scavenger's face, causing him to cough slightly.

"That's Artemesia Wendell from Vault 101. The one they call the Angel of Death. Remember that name. And don't be fooled by where she grew up." Her green eyes looked solemn. "Because take it from me, my friend, she's not somebody you want to go fucking with. That girl's tough as Yao Guai hide, and a true Wastelander."

* * *

Looking round at the sea of faces, many still awestruck by what they had witnessed, Clover said, "Well that seems to have gone down well."

Trying to fend off the press of curious Wastelanders seeking her attention, and even her autograph, Arta said, "Considering they're not trying to lynch us, I'd say you're right." Glancing towards the pen, she added, "I was a bit worried about Katrina sending Wolfgang with that display, but I think it helped to grab their attention."

"That kind of thing usually does. Though not everyone managed to listen right up to the end." Clover pointed to where Bryan had slipped away to play with some of the town's children, leaving Butch free to home in on one of the town's whores.

Arta laughed. "It's good to see they've already found ways to enjoy their new lives." She had already observed with satisfaction that Maggie was playing happily under Manya's watchful eye, and made a mental note to speak to them about Billy when a suitable opportunity came up.

"I certainly wish them a lot better success than some in this town."

Arta followed Clover's gaze up to a high terrace. A familiar figure was standing bewildered amongst the crowds of strangers milling around him, rearranging his chairs, putting their feet and beer on his favourite table, and even using his shack as a rest room. He wore the dazed and stupefied expression of a lost boy, or of a man bereft of all purpose and direction.

Clover said, "D'you think anyone will notice if I put a magnum round in his noddle?"

Arta said, "By the look of him, he wouldn't care that much himself."

"I could always put it in his ball-sack instead. That would go partway towards evening up the karmic balance. But, yeah, maybe there's some proof God exists after all."

Arta continued to stare, and finally caught Jericho's eye. He returned her look with the same blankness, then suddenly emotion seemed to stir within him. She had imagined this moment before, when she could revel in her triumph, could overpower him with the presence and poise of a strong, independent and capable woman. Now when she saw the pain and guilt written on his face, she felt only pity. She held his gaze for a long moment, until eventually he averted his eyes, and shambled away towards his shack. Several Wastelanders got their heads bashed together and were flung out, before the door was finally slammed.

Arta sighed, and turned away. "I guess we've got to do the rounds now."

* * *

"Well, well, young lady." Scribe Reginald Rothchild regarded Arta through hooded eyes. "A most impressive performance from your eloquent … friend. I can say with certainty I have never heard the like."

"I too." Like all the Outcasts, Protector Casdin's voice was mediated through his helmet speaker. "I did not even know these things were capable of thinking further than their next meal."

Arta suppressed a shudder. The Chief Scribe had a monk-like ring of white hair around his bald pate and a cold, severe look which evoked uncomfortable memories. As for Casdin, he had shown much of the arrogance typical of his followers.

She said, "Leo tells me that he's not alone amongst his kind in possessing a degree of intelligence comparable to our own. He has travelled extensively amongst the Supermutants, occasionally finding some willing to listen."

Rothchild gave the slightest of condescending smiles. "Our experience of the Supermutants is somewhat different to my old friend's. To fight an enemy effectively, one must know that enemy. We have known for some time that they can behave in an organised fashion. If it were not so, we would have long ago driven them from the Capital."

They stood on the high tier near Manya and Nathan's bus, watching the seething masses below. With the miraculous and sensational event over, many had decided to assuage their thirst and hunger by heavily patronising both regular and temporary food outlets.

Casdin gave a snort that sounded like a buzz of feedback. "Perhaps your failure was that you were unable to avoid needless diversions." He pointed to where a group of children was gathered round Leo, playing a game of tag. "Like infants who struggle to keep their butterfly minds for long on any one purpose."

The scribe gave a simper. "You should know better than us the distraction of shiny toys. But let us not quarrel like children in front of this uncommonly wise young woman. She at least recognises the value of unity."

Arta said quickly, "That's indeed our purpose in gathering so many Wastelanders together in Megaton. Our message is to demonstrate those values we can hold in common even with the most unlikely…"

Brusquely interrupting her Casdin said, "Yet its not the only message you bring. Surely this is a sign that the war against the Supermutants is not only unwinnable, but futile. We might achieve the same degree of success by leaving them alone."

Arta began, "That might work in the short run, however …"

This time it was Rothchild who broke in. "In this, dear Casdin, we may find some common ground. The Brotherhood has recently suffered some significant reverses. Our main outpost in DC, Galaxy News Radio, has been overrun. It may be necessary to draw in our horns, and evacuate to this side of the Potomac. However that will mean the river crossings must be even more heavily defended."

Casdin inclined his head, "We may be prepared to lend our aid in the lands to the west where the river grows shallow. But we cannot take all the burden of fighting on ourselves, especially when the search for technology occupies so important …"

Arta decided to seize on the moment of accord, "This is the kind of cooperation we're trying to encourage between all the factions, and to this end we're hoping to organise conferences over the next few days, to discuss the existing situation and plan for the future."

Rothchild nodded. "I agree to participate on behalf of the Brotherhood."

Casdin said, "And I on behalf of the Outcasts."

Mopping her brow, Arta said, "That's good to hear." As Casdin turned away to speak to other members of his party, she moved closer to lay a cautious hand on the sleeve of Rothchild's crimson robe. "And now, Chief Scribe, if I could just raise the small matter of a request by Dr. Lesko …"

* * *

"Clover!" Ymir let out a drunken roar which caused several patrons to spill their drinks in alarm. "At last a worthy drinking companion! Not one who falls over after merely wetting his lips." He indicated a nearby stool where Forty, another of Eulogy Jones' lieutenants, was slumped forward over the bar.

Clover composedly seated herself next to the sozzled slaver, and signalled Lucy to serve her a beer. "You've certainly made yourself at home in Megaton, darlin'. Seems like it's your kinda town."

"Of course! What's not to like? There is much good wine, beer, food and women!" Ymir leered at Lucy, who ignored him. In a theatrical tone, he added, "But, truly, nothing like the women we have back in the Falls. Or used to have." He clapped a meaty hand round Clover's shoulder, pulled her into a crushing embrace. "Ah, Clover, I've missed you! We all have! Well maybe Carolina not so much, but she and Jotun, they spend all their time fucking." Seeing Clover raise her eyebrows, he added, "Yes, it's a relief for me too. I was thinking the boy wasn't, you know, interested. I feared I must shell out to fix him up with a man-whore. Saved me much trouble and caps." With a sly dig. "Hope you found someone yourself to lay, eh? Like your new mistress? She looks a hot one!" Clover smiled and shrugged. "Ah, I thought so! Well, you got luckier than Crimson. By the gods, you used to hate each other like poison! But not nearly half as much as she hates that bitch Simone. Now Eulogy spends all his time trying to break her to his will, even though she mostly gives him the finger. Poor Crimson, I hear she hardly gets any, has to give the finger to herself, ha, ha!" Jabbing Clover again in a jocular fashion, he added, "Well, you got the best half of the deal, and did a better job than Eulogy in beating Simone's sorry arse, isn't that right? But he still gets to stick his cock up it every night, so maybe he didn't totally lose out."

Clover lowered the bottle from her lips. "You know, Ymir, I was gonna ask how things were back in the Falls. But you told the story all on your own."

"Ah-ah! I tell you about everyone but myself! And this no good prick that nobody cares about." He kicked out at Forty, who collapsed onto the floor. "Well, life is mostly good for me as always. Except I have to come here to see a stupid Supermutant shoot off his mouth. Peace and love, what a load of crap! I go back and tell Eulogy not to waste any more time on it."

Clover said, "But Ymir …"

"Look, it's nothing against you, okay? These people are your friends, right? Fine and dandy for you. But Eulogy doesn't have to get involved. It's not good business for him."

Clover said, "I think you're mistaken about that, Ymir."

"I mistaken, how?"

"You see, it's not that we're giving Eulogy a choice about getting involved. The way we see it, you're either for us or against us. There's the side that's for humanity, that's gonna be strong and united. And then there's the other side, that won't be. You join our side, or you're gonna get crushed." She knocked back the last of her beer, placed the bottle firmly on the table. "You figure for yourself where the good business lies." She got up and left the suddenly silent Ymir.

At the door of _Gob's Bar and Grill, _she met Butch, who had a giggling, scantily clad girl on his arm.

"Hey, Clover, how's it hanging?"

"Well, I don't have a whore clinging to me, is that good or bad?"

"Oh yeah, about that." Moving closer to her, Butch said confidentially. "Truth to tell, I didn't bring much stuff with me out of the Vault, so I don't have any of these caps things, and …"

"You don't pay round here, they break your face first. You don't need your face to pay them, see?"

"Ah … right, I figured something of the kind. I mean, just for now, can you lend me fifty caps? Plus maybe a little beer money?"

"Forget it!"

Butch raised his hands pleadingly. "Oh, c'mon, girl! It'll be just for a while. And I know you're absolutely loaded, so surely you can find it in your heart …"

"No!"

The girl, somewhat drunk, was beginning to take notice. "Somethin' wrong, Butchee?"

"Nothing to worry your head about, Serena my sweet." To Clover, urgently, "Aw, please, with sugar-bombs on top!"

Clover was about to refuse again, was struck by a sudden thought. She gave a sly smile. "What the hell! Here's a hundred caps. No, two hundred!"

"Oh, girl, you are the best!"

Winking Clover said, "How 'bout this, I pay the management, and tell them to give you very _special _treatment. Right out of the top drawer."

"You'd do that for me! C'mere and let me kiss you!"

Avoiding Butch's embrace, Clover walked back to the bar. Nova was polishing glasses, and absent-mindedly admiring Lucy's rear.

Keeping her voice low, Clover said, "My friend here needs some female company. But he has some very special requirements; you might call them perversions. To start with he has this thing about being tied up and gagged …"

* * *

Arta let out a long breath. "God, this high diplomacy is so draining! I never thought that just talking to people could be more tiring than a march through the Wastes!"

Sheriff Lucas Simms gave a grunt lacking in sympathy. "What did you expect? Maybe from the safety of a Vault its possible to entertain all kinds of idealistic notions. Out here in the Wasteland, people pay attention to their bottom-line means of survival. Those representatives you've talked to have their interests and those of their factions at heart. Its gonna take more than a fancy piece of theatre with a Supermutant to bring them together."

They were walking up one of the steep slopes leading to the edge of the crater, the late afternoon sun slanting over their shoulders.

Arta allowed hers to slump. "But that was the whole point of this. To bring people here with a common accord." With a flash of irritation, she added, "If they can't be persuaded to unify this way, maybe they'll have to pay attention to force after all …" She bit her lip.

_I shouldn't be boasting like this in front of Simms._

The Sheriff gave her a keen glance. "Gone all close-mouthed? I'm not very surprised. But if you think people a lot smarter than me can't see through to your hidden agenda, then maybe you did spend too much time in that hole in the ground."

Arta said crossly, "I really don't know what…"

"I think we've been here before, haven't we, when you swore blue you weren't about to pilfer my possessions? I've heard the rumours about this 'Raider religion' same as most folks here have. Its only I can join the dots up a bit better than your average Joe. There's a hell of a lot of Raiders out there, but most tribes are normally mutually antagonistic. A faith that could unite all of them could potentially drum up one hell of an army of fanatics. With that kind of force at your back, you're suddenly a big player in the Wasteland."

Arta shrugged. "Surely that's better than the kind of roving bands of plunderers you have now?"

"Maybe. But the point I'm making is that certain people will fear that kind of power in one woman's hands, whether she calls herself the Lone Wanderer or the Angel of Death. And they'll sure as hell take her seriously." He snorted. "Do you think you got the Brotherhood, the Outcasts, Paradise Falls and the Regulators here just to goggle while you delivered the Sermon on the Mount? Sonora knew within hours what was going on. The Outcasts' scouting parties see everything that moves in the Wastes. And the Slavers and the Raiders have always been close. When something that big occurs, its gonna get attention from the people that really matter. You'd be kidding yourself to think otherwise."

Arta smiled a little sheepishly. "It seems you've got me pegged, as always. But what if I tried to convince you an army like that could be a force for good in the end? That it could start a crusade that would purge the Wastes of chaos?"

Simms snorted again. "I'd be just a little bit sceptical. Because what you're talking about is war. And war never changes."

"You're a cynic, Lucas. With that attitude, nothing will ever change."

"Its not me, girl; its human nature."

Arta threw up her hands disconsolately. "And so on round in circles. Well, I'm glad we talked about it anyway." They walked in silence until they reached the upper level. Then Arta suddenly gave Simms a nudge. "Look, there's Sonora on her own near the Water processor."

"So?"

"Don't you think she's a fine-looking woman? And I'm sure you two have lots in common, like … being law and order types." She gave a little nod. "You should go talk to her. Use your manly charms."

"I should?"

"Trust me, I know when two people are gagging for it."

"Gagging?"

Smiling at the memory of Jeffrey Bernard, Arta said, "It's an expression British people use. C'mon, use your imagination!"

_Maybe this'll distract his attention a little._

"Arta!"

The Vault woman whirled at the sound of Bryan Wilks voice. He was gasping for air, leaning for support on Harden Simms' shoulder.

In his usual solemn and matter-of-fact tone, the Sheriff's son said, "Guess he ain't accustomed to running up hills this steep."

Finally catching his breath, Bryan said, "We ran all the way to tell you. The Rivet City people want to talk to you. They said it was real important and couldn't wait."

Arta sighed, "Then I suppose you'd better show me where they are. Though it seems like the whole world wants to talk to me right now."

Taking her hand, Bryan said, "Better than having no one to talk to, isn't it? Or to look after you. You know, I've an Aunt in Rivet City called Vera Weatherly. I asked the guard lady in the black armour, and she told me she's still living there."

Bending down to pull him close, Arta said tenderly, "Bryan, you'll always be very dear to me. But if there's anywhere you want to go where you'll be happier, I'll do my best to make it happen." He pressed himself against her, and she held him there for a while. Eventually she said, "C'mon, let's go now." Hand in hand, they walked together back down the sharply descending path.

The Sheriff and his son were left standing looking at one another. After a pause, Lucas assayed a jocular "Hey, shooter! How goes it?"

Watching the retreating figures, Harden asked gravely, "Pop, why can't we have a new momma like Bryan has?"

Picking him up in his arms, Lucas Simms, regarded the boy for a moment, then gently kissed his cheek. He said, very seriously, "Because it ain't always easy to find one, and be sure she's right to be your mom. But maybe if we're lucky like Bryan, it'll happen. Maybe even soon." He replaced Harden on the ground, gave him a pat on the head. "Go on now, go play with Maggie. Daddy's got some important things to do."

* * *

The Rivet City delegation looked every bit as intimidating as the other powerful factions Arta had previously met. The black combat armour worn by the Deputy Head of Security and her escort reminded her of Talon Company, and their helmets resembled those of Vault Security. With those unpleasant associations, and the rather unsympathetic expression on the woman's handsome but careworn face, Arta was prepared for another tough negotiation.

"I'm Lana Danvers, deputising for Chief Harkness of Rivet City Security." She had penetrating grey eyes, light brown hair arranged in a conservative but still feminine style, and appeared to be in her early thirties. "This gentleman with me is Claude Bannon, representing our traders within the city council." She indicated an older man, nattily dressed in a patterned waistcoat over a white shirt, who gave an elaborate bow. "We have our own special concerns about your … diplomatic initiative … considering that the position of Rivet City is a strong but sometimes isolated one. However we will discuss those presently. Meanwhile one of our delegates wishes to speak privately with you."

Trying to hide her discomposure, Arta said, "I'm sorry, but why should that be? I've never been to your city or met anyone from it."

Danvers smiled a little wryly. "That last statement is incorrect, as you will shortly discover."

The ranks of the Rivet City guards had parted to reveal a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat. She had delicate Asiatic features: a slender nose beneath eyes set wide apart, with a somewhat hunted look in them. Her dark hair was slightly waved, and as tightly controlled as the set of her tiny, prim mouth. The immaculate condition of her clothing suggested that her scientific role was less 'hands on' than Lesko's.

With the same faint smile, Danvers said, "I present to you Dr. Madison Li, head of Rivet City's science lab. Dr Li is also a full Council member."

_I go to so much trouble to find a scientist, and now one comes to find me._ The thought passed almost automatically through Arta's mind, for though she was convinced she had never met Dr Li before, there was a strange familiarity at which her memory tried to grasp, as though recalling a face seen in a dream.

Danvers went on, "Dr Li, this is …" but the woman had already begun to address Arta, her voice pitched high, and trembling with emotion, her expression suddenly animated.

"My heavens … you look _so like him."_

The disorientating sense of recognition Arta was experiencing grew stronger when Dr Li spoke.

She said, in a dazed tone, "Wh … _what?"_

Li seemed to gather herself. "You're James Wendell's daughter, aren't you? I thought you were supposed to be in a Vault somewhere, but when I heard a recording of your radio broadcast, I recognised your name at once." Arta continued to gape at her and the scientist's voice grew somewhat curt. "I can tell from your reaction James never mentioned me. Typical. Despite our working together very closely … on Project Purity. I see you've heard of that at least. Perhaps though you'll be more interested to know I was present at your birth, that I actually helped to deliver you."

Arta felt the same light-headedness that had overcome her when Moriarty had spoken of her past. She fought against it. "You were there when I was born … and my mother died. How … and where?

Li looked astonished. "In the Jefferson Memorial, of course. Which was the site of Project Purity, very close to Rivet City. You don't know these things? Unbelievable! What could James have been thinking?"

_The Jefferson Memorial! _Arta remembered the building with a rounded dome she'd distantly seen across the water from the Citadel, when Mei Wong had swum the Potomac. Had she known then its significance, would she have gone with her?

Shakily, she said, "He never told me anything about my origins outside the Vault. To stop me wanting to leave. I've had to discover everything for myself."

"Ah, I begin to understand! He wanted you to remain protected in the Vault. A pity you didn't take his advice!"

Arta was seized by a sudden anger. "No, it wasn't. There's no way I was staying cooped up in that hole!" Seeing Li recoil, she forced herself to control her voice. "Please. I need to know. About how things were then. About my mother and father."

"Very well." Li tentatively put a hand on Arta's arm, and drew her apart from the rest of the delegation. "Your mother … she was a good woman, and a very dedicated scientist. You're father loved her very much. It was tragic that she died shortly after your birth. She had been so excited to meet you. There were unexpected complications … and with the primitive equipment available to us … "

Arta felt tears moisten her eyes. She wanted to ask if there wasn't more that Li could've done … but what was the point? It would only upset or anger her.

Instead she said, "Tell me about my parents and Project Purity. What were they trying to do, and why didn't they succeed?"

Li frowned, as though unwilling to recall past failures. "Essentially it was a simple idea. Obtain fresh, clean water for everyone by drawing it from the tidal basin and through the purifier we'd built at the Memorial. But when the process was applied on a larger scale there were problems. The project was abandoned before they could be overcome."

A vision stole into Arta's mind; of a domed interior, interlaced with glowing pipes of liquid, of her father operating machinery before falling dying to the floor. _But it was a dream!_

"Why, what happened?"

"_You _happened. After losing your mother, your father couldn't bear the thought that something terrible would happen to you as well. He became solely concerned with ensuring your safety. So he left the project to take you to a Vault."

"And no one else could carry it on?"

"Unfortunately not. We were under constant threat from mutant attack, and security was provided by the Brotherhood of Steel. As head of the project, your father was the only scientist Owyn Lyons had faith in to make it work. After James' departure, the Brotherhood withdrew their support, and we had to leave. I took refuge in Rivet City nearby, and established my own lab, which mainly conducts research into hydroponics. I'm frankly astonished that your father wants to return to the project almost twenty years after leaving."

"How d'you know he does?"

Dr Li blinked. "Because I've talked to him, naturally! He came to my lab begging me to help restart it, convinced that he had found a way to make it work. But after such a long time … and with all my commitments … how could I …"

Li's words were cut off, as Arta seized her by the shoulders and shook her violently. "You've seen my father! Where the hell is he? Tell me at once!"

"Please … let me go and I'll tell you what I know!" Arta released her abruptly, and Li paused to catch her breath, irritably waving aside the Security guards who had rushed to her assistance. "He said he was going back to Jefferson. I told him not to, that it was too dangerous with Supermutants in the vicinity. But as usual he didn't seem inclined to listen to me." She smoothed down her lab coat. "There were two Brotherhood knights with him. Why don't you go ask them?"

* * *

*_Jericho's dream_ had several sources of inspiration: a _flying Deathclaw glitch_ which allowed me to see the Wasteland from above (by firing a dart at it), and the films _The Ninth Gate (dir. Roman Polanski) _and _Dune (dir. David Lynch). _Although near the start of the chapter, it was the last thing to be written. I hope it doesn't seem out of place!

_Fertility: _I'm assuming that that the effects of prolonged exposure to radiation would be to reduce fertility and the chance of a live, healthy birth, particularly in older women. (Jenny is supposedly in her mid-twenties). Contraceptives would mostly be improvised or scavenged, so the withdrawal method might find some adherents, even if it's certainly _not _to be recommended, and provides no barrier to STDs. (Something I've particularly been reminded of since playing _Fable2_!)

As the citizen of a Vault, where population control is crucial, Arta would probably be chemically sterilised, and inoculated against most diseases, making precautions unnecessary in her case. Her mother, who seems to have been somewhat older when giving birth, quite conceivably grew up in a similar, protected environment.

_No prophet is accepted in his own country: _this saying is attributed to Jesus Christ, explaining why his reception in his hometown of Galilee was less than ecstatic.

_Water to be turned to wine: _Possibly Christ's most famous and definitive miracle. In the Wasteland, of course, the reverse procedure of creating pure water might actually be more impressive.

_I have a dream: _Following the rhetorical pattern of Martin Luther King's inspirational speech on racial harmony, surely one of the greatest and most influential of all time. I always tear up when I think of him making it, and that he died not long after. Leo's speech would have been even more inclusive, as Supermutants affected by the Forced Evolutionary Virus (F.E.V.) presumably count as a whole new species.

_The Sermon on the Mount: _an important mission statement delivered by Christ to a multitude of people, and containing such notable sentiments as: _blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth._ Referred to somewhat ironically by Simms.

_Gagging for it:_ Brit slang for being absolutely desperate for something, usually sex. Couldn't think of a good US alternative.

_Claude Bannon:_ of necessity I had to completely make up his first name, but it sounds so right for a clothier, and I can just see the designer label.

_Rivet City Council: _It might be questioned whether they would risk sending _two_ Council members as delegates to Megaton, including their most eminent scientist. My feeling is that Bannon would demand to go, considering his manipulative nature. Dr Li, by contrast, would be reluctant to leave her work. However, in the circumstances, the rest of the council might lean on her to comply, assuming they knew of her link with Arta.*


	37. War Never Changes

Chapter 37 War Never Changes

"The Pride was like a family and Sarah Lyons was more than just its commander. She was our sister: she was our mother. Every member of Lyons Pride took her death _personally_."

The speaker had introduced himself as 'Sentinel' Kodiak, a slight hesitation indicating that he was not yet accustomed to the new title. He was dark-featured, serious-looking and spoke softly but with force. Arta judged that he would be a capable replacement for his predecessor, even if he did not quite have her outstanding charisma.

A small knot of Brotherhood soldiers bearing the emblem of Lyons Pride was assembled outside the house formerly belonging to Mr Burke. On hearing that its owner would most probably no longer require it, Sheriff Simms had declared it the venue for the First Capital Conference. However outside this function, it was temporarily accommodating the Brotherhood delegation. Arta wondered what Scribe Rothchild would make of Burke's taste in home decoration. An examination of the contents earlier had yielded little of interest other than the collection of salacious and violent books described by Mei Wong.

Fixing Arta with a penetrating look, Kodiak continued, "Your account that Sarah was killed firing a mini nuke at a Supermutant behemoth accords by and large with the reports we received before the station went silent. But one thing troubles me. Our scouting parties later found her power armour lying in a ruined building some distance away from her body, as though it had been removed prior to her death. Why would an experienced fighter take off her armour before battle?"

"The Fatman launcher had been dropped by Paladin Vargas very close to where the behemoth was standing. It would have been almost impossible for someone in armour to recover it without alerting the creature, but Sarah volunteered anyway as the most experienced in using the weapon. Unfortunately it detected her before she could retreat far enough from the blast radius to survive."

Arta spoke with confidence. She had the advantage of already hearing Jericho's concocted explanation to the soldiers at GNR.

With unfeigned sorrow, she continued, "By her heroic actions, Sarah saved me and my companions. In the short time I knew her, I learned to like and respect her. I mourned her death."

Kodiak bowed his head. "It is not often that outsiders express gratitude for the sacrifices made by the Brotherhood. I am satisfied that Sarah Lyons died in a manner worthy of a Sentinel of our order. She will be accorded a special place of honour in the Citadel records."

_Perhaps sometimes a lie can attain a greater truth. Regardless of that, its what future generations will remember: a historical account as firmly established as the assassination of Lincoln. Yet if Kodiak and the other Pride members knew what actually happened, they'd want to kill me, along with Jericho and Clover. I'm using a falsehood to gain their trust._

Kodiak paused to consider. "Elder Lyons will surely wish to hear this testament from your own lips. I know he mourns greatly for his daughter in private, though he must present a brave face to the rest of the Brotherhood."

Arta said, "I had intended to speak to the Elder in due time."

Kodiak said fervently, "May that time not be long delayed! In the meanwhile, is there any further way the Brotherhood may be of service to you?"

"There is. I've been told by Doctor Madison Li that two of your soldiers were with my father, James Wendell, when he left Rivet City. They may have been the last to see him alive."

Kodiak said in surprised tones. "That's indeed true, but Knight Captain Dusk here has already submitted her full report at the Citadel. Were you not so informed by Scribe Rothchild?"

"No. He didn't even mention the subject!"

Kodiak frowned. "That's very strange … could he perhaps have been distracted by weightier issues?"

The woman Kodiak had introduced as Knight Captain Dusk spoke up. "I seriously doubt that. The old fox probably had some devious reason of his own for not telling you."

Kodiak said, "Dawn, you should not …"

"Hell, Greg, Sarah never minded us vets speaking our minds."

"Sure, but amongst ourselves alone." To Arta he said, "Forgive us if there's been some failure of communication."

Arta was focusing her attention on Dusk (_Dawn_ Dusk?) She had brown eyes so dark they were almost black, and heavy, prominent eyebrows of a similar colour, that gave her a somewhat severe look to match her pugnacious manner. But her countenance was lightened by features of a typically Asian mould, a well-sculpted nose and Cupid's bow-shaped lips. Her hair was cut short in the military fashion.

"Tell me about your dealings with my father."

Dusk abstractedly traced the outline of her brows with her fingers. "I was on a routine patrol of DC, and we called into GNR to replenish our ammo. Your father was already there in the company of another member of our Pride, Knight Captain Gallows. Apparently they'd come almost all the way from Megaton together.

After talking with Three Dog, they were about to leave again. But I decided that I was gonna tag along with them."

"Why?"

Dusk shrugged. "Curiosity, I guess. And also …" she glanced at Kodiak.

He said, "Dawn, please …"

"Look, I only tell it like it is." Looking at Arta. "To be honest because I don't trust Gallows. He's always out in the field on his own. He's not a team player. And he never talks much."

Kodiak said, exasperated, "Sarah trusted him implicitly! And working alone and remaining close-mouthed is natural for a special operative."

"Yeah, well that's a great cover, isn't it? Tell us its spec-ops and all questions go out the window."

Arta said patiently, "So you went with them."

"Yes, and didn't Gallows just hate it! But James didn't mind the extra company, so how could that sneaky bastard object? We went straight to Rivet City … or as straight as you can get when you're using subway tunnels through a mutant, ghoul and Raider infested war zone.

When we arrived there, James talked to your Dr. Li … well, argued with her would be a better way to put it. He didn't look too happy with the outcome, and announced to Gallows that he wanted to go to the Jefferson Memorial next."

_Exactly as Li said._

"I figured I'd gone that far, so why not a bit further. Lucky for them I did. Jefferson was surrounded by mutant patrols. But …" tapping the sniper rifle slung from her back, "put any mutie bastard within one mile of me and my rifle, and pack up troops, fight's over."

Arta asked, "So did you go inside?"

A faint flush tinged Dusk's cheeks. "I would've liked to, believe me. Your father's quite the persuasive type. And, you know, if he ever considers remarrying … Still, enough's enough. That place was as thick with muties as anywhere in DC. And close quarter fighting's not really my style. I tried to talk them out of it. In the end, all I could do was to promise to try and fetch extra help from the Citadel."

_Great, so in effect you abandoned my father in mutant central! And with a man in whom you've little confidence._

Restraining the impulse to voice what she thought of that, Arta asked, "And did you send any?"

Dusk shook her head, looking embarrassed, but Kodiak prompted, "Tell her what Elder Lyons said."

Dusk grimaced, "He said, 'Dr. Wendell will be safe with Knight Captain Gallows'."

Unable to hold back her emotions any longer, Arta burst out, "But you said you didn't trust him!"

Dusk looked down. "I don't. Still if there's anybody in the Wastes who can keep James alive in that hellhole, its Gallows. The man is a killing machine, and he comes and goes like a ghost."

Kodiak added, "That's the truth, believe me. Your father is safer than if we had sent a whole squad of Brotherhood knights that would only get the attention of more Supermutants. In any case, our resources were stretched too thin to do that."

Arta said despairingly, "So that's it then? That's the last you saw or heard of either of them?"

Gently Kodiak said, "When we left the Citadel, Gallows still hadn't reported in. But it's not unusual for him to disappear for weeks at a time. The odds may speak otherwise, but I have a feeling that somewhere he and your father are still alive."

Arta stifled a sob. "If only I knew that were true. I fear that its not."

"Hope remains for you at least. For Owyn Lyons there is none, yet despite the loss of his only daughter, he continues with his duties. And I know he respects your father, and would not wish him to come to harm." Touching Arta's arm briefly, Kodiak said, "Go to him, and you may comfort him, and find comfort. Go to the Citadel."

* * *

"Uh … Mistress?"

Nova turned to look at the whore hovering uncertainly at the bottom of the stairwell. She held a whip somewhat limply in one hand, while using the other to nervously twist the long strands of her glossy, black hair, partly confined beneath a peaked policeman's cap. Nova _liked _Serena. She liked her attitude to whoring, which was almost entirely pragmatic. Serena had few concerns about a profession she treated as any other job, apart from how best to go about it. Virtually the model employee, she soaked up instruction and advice like a sponge. She most often asked _how, _and seldom _why_.

Nova also _liked_ Serena in a quite different sense of the word. The term 'Mistress'_, _intended as a mark of deference to her employer, applied also to Nova's dominant role in the bedroom. Her regular training sessions, while of practical value to her apt pupil, also conveniently helped to fulfil some of Nova's wilder sexual fantasies. Fantasies which were more difficult to bring about in the gentler and more domestic relationship she had developed with Lucy. Nova figured that her partner might suspect what went on; on the other hand, she wasn't really in a position to object. In any case, it might keep Lucy from becoming too complacent, and Nova was definitely not in favour of complacency.

Following this general principle, despite her liking for Serena and the way she went about her work, she made a point of reprimanding her as often as she praised her. There was nearly always some occasion or excuse for it, and this looked like it would be another. That she also got quite a kick out of doing so was something that no longer troubled her.

"What is it, Serena?" She deliberately put on her 'Mistress' voice, which was cold, imperious but with more than a hint of sexiness.

Serena absently tugged on the straps of the tight, leather corset that was just about imprisoning her full breasts. "It's about this latest client that you told us wanted to be tied up and whipped, and … the other usual stuff."

"Yes, a task which ought to be second nature after all the training I've given you. Surely there can't be any problem?" Nova was determined not to make this easy on Serena.

Just as she'd hoped, Serena reddened. "Apologies, Mistress. It's not exactly that there's a problem with us, more like there's a problem with _him_. I get this feeling he wasn't expecting what we were going to do, and that he isn't enjoying it. He even looks a bit scared, like he's really in pain. I was wondering if we should …" She gulped, hesitated then finally managed, "If we should maybe take his gag off and ask him?"

"Serena!" Nova's sudden shout made the whore jump to attention. "What have I always told you?"

"Um … Mistress?" Serena looked ready to wet herself.

"When a client asks us, and most particularly _pays _us to do something to him, _then that's exactly what we do_. We don't question him, and we especially don't take off a gag if we've been told not to. I'm shocked that you should even bring this up."

"I'm sorry, Mistress!" Serena wailed.

"And I'm disappointed, very disappointed at your attitude. Call yourself a dominatrix! Look at you shaking like you're about to blubber away."

Serena's jaw firmed. She began to hold the whip like she was intending to wield it with extreme prejudice. As Nova had intended, the dressing down had really gingered up the young woman for her dominant role. She stroked the leather tail lovingly, then gave it an experimental crack.

"That's better! Now I want you get back in there and give that gimp hell!"

"Yes, Mistress!"

"Wait just a moment. We were asked to give our client a suitably grand finale to his time with us. I think we should make sure he gets an even _bigger_ climax." Nova pulled a large, bulbous object from under the bar, and smiled grimly.

"Use the super size one. And make sure you use it like you really mean it!"

"Yes, Mistress, I will!" Serena turned to go back up the stairs, with an evil glint in her eye.

Satisfied Nova resumed her seat. From across the bar, Lucy drawled, "Trouble with the help?"

"No need for you to concern yourself about it, hon'." _Though perhaps you should be concerned. That little disciplinary session has got me all stirred up. I think I'll need to see Serena for some 'debriefing' afterwards. Nothing like a bit of S and M to liven up your day._

* * *

"You have done well, Sentinel. You may leave."

Kodiak's bow was a mere nod, and he silently left the house.

The Chief Scribe turned to where Henry Casdin was irritably thumbing through one of Burke's volumes, entitled _Justine; or the Misfortunes of Virtue by the Marquis De Sade. _Without his bio-helmet, Casdin was shown to have deep-set eyes, inward sloping brows and the clear, bronze skin of an eastern ascetic, combined with the austere and unrelenting look of a religious zealot.

"I most particularly wanted you to hear Kodiak's report."

"Well, what of it? The girl's father shows a reckless disregard for his own safety and of those protecting him, which suggests that if he's not already left this world, then he will very soon. He and his insane project are a waste of everyone's time."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, but my intention was in part to learn more of the girl's way of thinking."

"And what conclusions did you draw? That she's concerned for her father is hardly revelatory."

"No, but the lengths she might go to assist him could be." Rothschild paused. "I assume there's trust between us?"

Casdin grunted. "As much as can be expected considering our very different positions."

"Well, I suppose that must suffice. Let me sum up my thinking on the matter. We are confronted with an individual whose potential to assist our mission is as great as her ability to endanger it. On the one hand she holds out the possibility of an end to the conflict which has blighted our hopes; on the other she threatens to begin a new crusade with even more terrible consequences."

Casdin nodded slowly. "I see your point. This new religion, even if it infects only the Raiders, could have violent and unpredictable consequences. To stir up the common people is always dangerous. If the girl persists with the same disregard as her father, she could unleash chaos and ruin upon us all."

Rothchild steepled his hands. "Precisely so. And my instinct based on what we've just heard is that's exactly what she _will _do."

"What then is your solution? Assassination?"

"That too could trigger the apocalypse that we fear, while throwing away any chance that she could be of help. No, our best hope is to tie her into the Brotherhood. By making her a part of it, we can then better control her unruly impulses. And there lies the other part of my instructions to Kodiak. We must bring her to the Citadel."

"You say 'we', but the Outcasts are no longer part of the Capital Wasteland arm of the Brotherhood for the very reason that it has abandoned our mission and core beliefs."

A wintry smile touched Rothchild's thin lips. "If all goes well, and the trust between us is not misplaced, then a return to the values of the Codex, and a reconciliation between the split halves of the Brotherhood may be imminent."

Casdin's breathing grew heavier. "You speak of treason?"

"That depends on one's perspective. From the viewpoint of our Brothers on the West Coast, we are the loyalists, and Lyons is the traitor."

"At least we have been honest in our views; you however …"

"Let's not split hairs. In any case, if these measures are not swiftly implemented, a far greater disaster could overtake the Brotherhood. I have something further to show you."

The two men walked into the adjoining room. Neither of them noticed a flicker of movement in the deepest shadows.

Rothchild was speaking again. "All of these artefacts were recovered from the wreck of a flying machine which our records indicate is a Vertibird. That in itself is ominous enough. The weapons unfortunately are too badly damaged to properly examine; the armour, however, is intact. You see?"

There was a pause, then a choked cry from Casdin. "This … this is beyond anything that we …"

"Yes, even our own plasma weapons would find it difficult to penetrate. And this wasn't the only sighting; there have been others. The Enclave is on the move."

"What can we do? Their intentions towards us can only be hostile!"

"The Brotherhood must reunite, and push forward the progress of our technology before its too late. In particular, we must reactivate Liberty Prime …"

As the two men turned away and continued to talk, a shadowy figure moved closer to the table, picked up a black metal object, and scuttled back into the darkness.

* * *

"It's as though there's another land up there in the sky." Clover pointed to the west, where the last dregs of sunset remained. "See how it's a pale yellow, the colour of the desert. The tufts of grey clouds look like rocks sticking up amongst the dunes. And further up the grey's mingled with thin lines of red, like the sides of a huge crater around a deep sea of sand."

Arta said, absentmindedly, "If it was a real land, it would be just as harsh and beautiful as this one."

They stood at the gates of Megaton. The city of tents was around them, figures moving amongst them in the dimness of twilight. Near at hand, the white glow from Deputy Weld's glass head plate shone out like a beacon, as the Protectron maintained its solitary vigil. _"Thirsty partner? Try Gob's Bar and Grill."_

"Maybe it'd be more peaceful, if there weren't any people … or advertising."

"Then there'd be no one to feel that peace or see that beauty." Arta gave a sigh, and walked to and fro, hugging herself.

After a while, she said, "So the Chief Scribe fears that I'm gonna take the Brotherhood on another destructive crusade. But he still needs my help if the Enclave appears. Sounds like he wants to have his cake and eat it."

Clover said uncertainly, "There's no doubt he's a slippery character, like you guessed. You were right setting me to spy on him. And anyone who'll turn on his boss like that can't be trusted. But hasn't he called it about right? You _do _want to start a crusade, and the Enclave is a threat, isn't it?"

"It's not quite that simple. I want to unite the Wasteland, but not just for the Brotherhood's benefit, for _everyone's_. Including the Enclave, including even the Supermutants. If we can do that without fighting, then so much the better."

Clover said, "But you know that's not very likely, don't you? We'll most probably have to fight, and we may have to take sides, sooner or later. And when you sharpen a sword, that makes using it more likely."

Arta winced. "So the Sheriff keeps reminding me. Or as he says …" she tried not very successfully to imitate Simms' deep delivery, "_War never changes._"

"Yeah, ain't that the truth!" Clover held up the object she'd purloined, and shuddered. "But I mean, _look _at it. It's just evil, somehow."

_Its certainly been designed to be intimidating. _The helmet was tall and a deep black, with round yellow eye holes, and protrusions atop it that resembled wings or stubby horns. The obvious intention was to make its wearer resemble a mythical demon, exploiting fears buried deep in the human psyche.

Arta forced herself into a rational response. "We can't judge them on the basis of wearing scary, black armour. Supermutants and ghouls look hideous, but they're not all hostile."

"I guess, though they can't help their appearance, and Eden's always struck me as sounding like an arsehole."

_Her instincts are often right. _"Still we have to give negotiation a chance."

"Whatever, though I'd say the Brotherhood's more likely to rely on their precious technology, and this giant robot they've got."

_Giant robot! It sounds like something from a bad sci-fi story! _"Which doesn't yet work, it seems. And you said they admitted Enclave tech is better. Perhaps if I talk to Owyn Lyons directly. He sounds more reasonable than Rothchild or Casdin, and he's still in charge."

"Not if that sneaky scribe gets his way. And how are you gonna talk to Eden?"

Arta decided she'd had enough of answering Clover's awkward questions. "Let's just cross that bridge when and if we come to it, okay? Maybe Rothchild overestimated the Enclave threat. In any case, there's little we can do right now. How about we spend at least one evening relaxing? Let's go find the new accommodation the Sheriff's provided us with."

"I'm all in favour of that. I've been waiting long enough for my own place to live."

The empty, locked house was conveniently close to the main gates, though it also shared a terrace with Jericho's dwelling. There was no sign of the shack's occupant, and the door was firmly closed. _Of all the people to have as a next-door neighbour!_

Clover said, "There's something sticking in the wall of the house."

Arta strode forward, and drew out the knife.

"Katrina's dagger!"

"What the fuck's it doing here?"

"Perhaps its some kind of warning, but who to?" Arta glanced at Clover. "She didn't know we would be living here. Or anyone else for that matter."

Clover sucked her lip thoughtfully. "My guess is it was for Jericho. Maybe she or whoever she sent got the wrong house. Probably meant to show him just what she thinks of him now, the dirty traitor!"

"I think you're right." Arta sent the dagger spinning so that it stuck in Jericho's door.

"Hey, you've been practicing! Did Katrina teach you how to do that?" Arta nodded, and Clover went on, "She could be very useful to us, I can't deny. But do you really trust her?"

"No, I don't. But I trust her ambition, her desire to make a name for herself. And if she wants to lead a new religion, then she needs me."

Clover said, "She needs the Angel of Death … alive or dead. If I were you, I'd start watching my back."

"I've got you to do that, haven't I? Anyway, let's go in."

Arta's fingers tingled expectantly as she inserted the key Simms had given her. _We keep the house for anyone who does the town a major service. Getting that bomb defused qualifies in my book. People have used it from time to time; reckon you can have it for as long as you need it._

Clover said, "Wow, I'm really excited to see what's inside!"

The interior looked very much like any other Megaton house, rather drab and dilapidated, the stairs leading to an upper storey with a gallery running round, and doors to two small rooms visible above.

Peeping round the corner into an alcove, Clover said, with a trace of disappointment, "There's a fridge at least."

Arta said, "And plenty of lockers and shelves for storage. Lucas said that Moira could add extra features if we wanted, like special styles of decoration, or a drinks machine. Knowing her though we'll probably have to pay through the nose. I don't know if I'll bother."

Clover said, "Still if it's the first real home that we …" stopping uncertainly. "I mean, of course, you own it really, so I guess its up to you."

"Don't be silly! You helped earn it! And anything that's mine is yours, naturally."

Clover was just planting an affectionate kiss on Arta's cheek, when there came the sound of rocket thrusters flaring, and a remarkably life-like imitation of a modest human cough.

"Forgive me, madam, for interrupting."

Arta turned to see that a robot had descended the stairway. It was identical in design to Andy: a large spherical torso trailing triple multi-functional manipulators, like a gleaming three-legged metal octopus. Bobbing gently up and down on its thrusters, it rotated gracefully in mid-air, allowing one of the three rounded optic devices protruding from its circumference to face them, giving the impression of an eye staring rather than a camera lens focusing.

"Good evening, I'm Wadsworth, your robotic butler. I'm here to cater to your needs and provide you with entertainment. What can I do for you?" Thanks to their encounter with Jeffrey Bernard, its plummy accent was recognisably British.

Clover gave a small shriek of excitement. "Can you believe it, our very own robot!"

Accustomed as she was to working closely with Andy, Arta felt a little apprehensive, remembering his occasional 'eccentricities'. The 'Mr. Handy' model came equipped with a buzz saw and an internal flame thrower, leading to such unfortunate incidents as the demise of her birthday cake and at least one of the Vault's citizens.

Carefully she asked, "What _can _you do for us?"

"Apart from my usual cleaning and tidying functions, I can dispense liquid refreshment, style your hair, advise on alterations to your house and, ahem, even provide my own brand of comic relief!"

"We've just had our hair done, thank you." _And even if we hadn't, I'm not trusting a robot to cut it. _"Some refreshments would be good."

"Certainly madam, here you are." The robot dispensed a capsule of colourless fluid, which Arta, tasting with caution, concluded to be distilled water.

_Well, well! So there's at least one_ _pure water source within Megaton itself. No need for seeking accommodation at Tenpenny Towers after all. _Arta remembered how Jericho had taunted her that she'd never find such a supply. Had he known of this secret? By experiment she found Wadsworth could produce over half a dozen such capsules before announcing that it was necessary to re-charge his 'condensers'. Nothing like the scale Project Purity was attempting. This was fresh water for the elite only. She wondered who had been allowed access to it previously.

Clover said, "How about telling us something funny?"

"A neutron goes into a bar and asks 'How much for a beer?' To which the barman replies, 'For you, no charge'." Wadsworth gave a slight titter at his own witticism.

Shaking her head, Clover asked, "Is it working properly?" To Wadsworth, "Another please!"

"My humour array requires recharging."

"You're taking the mickey!"

Lowering her voice, Arta hissed, "Don't upset it now!" Aloud she asked, "You mentioned something about altering the house."

"Indeed! The actual purchasing must be done from Moira Brown. However my recommendation …" the robot appeared to be scanning her with its optic "is for something in the Vault style, with a medical facility. Or perhaps a lab unit, should you be the sort that likes playing with chems … or getting addicted to them."

Arta frowned. "I don't plan to. And I think another style might suit. However that can wait. Let's check out the bedroom." With a slight flush: "Wadsworth, can you leave us in private please?"

"Absolutely madam!" Wadsworth hummed discreetly. "Perhaps I could tidy up down here?"

"That would be appreciated."

Collapsing on the surprisingly high quality bed, Arta was content to let Clover soothe the tension out of her muscles.

Working industriously, Clover commented, "That robot's slightly dotty, but at least it knows when to make itself scarce."

"Yes, I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable with it … watching."

Clover giggled. "Is _this _the sort of thing you'd rather it didn't see?"

"Definitely."

* * *

Butch slammed the door of _Gob's Bar and Grill_, and, panting, looked frantically left and right. He needed a stiff drink, in fact several, but there was no way he was going back in there. _Those crazy women! _He could never have imagined they'd do things like that to him … well, he could never have imagined most of them, anyway. _Special treatment! _His back was aflame from whipping, his nipples and privates were stinging from applications of hot wax, and he was trying to forget what had happened to his butt.

After the initial shock of being unexpectedly tied up and gagged, it hadn't been too bad at first. He'd kind of got used to the pain, and Serena had even looked like she was going easy on him. Then she'd left and come back in a decidedly meaner mood. It had got considerably less comfortable after that. And just when he'd thought it couldn't get any worse …

With the more honest part of his mind, he had to admit it hadn't been _all _bad. Serena had been wearing some quality gear, looking like a woman out of a particularly wild wet dream. The peaked hat had been a nice touch too. If you did something like that with someone you trusted not to hurt you too bad, it might even be fun in a kinky kind of way. With Christine Kendall, maybe, though he'd probably never see her again. Clover was definitely off limits. Could she have tricked him, knowing very well what those bitches had in mind for him? Or was this sort of thing the norm in the Wasteland? How was he to find out? He could ask Arta. On the other hand, she might be into all kinds of perverted stuff by now. He shuddered. Best not to go there. If he ever managed to get to Rivet City, he hoped the whores would have a little less imagination … and much smaller sex toys.

He turned his thoughts back to recovering from his ordeal. First to buy some booze. He still had some of the caps Clover had given him. Luckily he didn't have to go far before he found a temporary stall selling strong liqueur. Knocking back a bottle of whisky, he felt a little better. Then even more fortunately he found a Wasteland doctor, who provided him with some ointment. It smelt peculiar but seemed to work quite well. She even helped rub some on his back, although, disappointingly, she declined to apply it to his more intimate areas.

Now what should he do? The sun was sinking fast, and he needed somewhere to rest. The most obvious place was this new house Arta had been presented with on account of her outstanding services to Megaton. But where was it? The twisty, spiralling pathways of the town, and the crowds, which he still felt somewhat agoraphobic amongst, made it hard to find anywhere, even in daylight. As for a house he'd never even seen … he could try asking someone, if he could figure out how to put the question.

"Uh … um, the empty house, the one they give to people who help Megaton, can you tell me where it is?"

The woman he'd asked, a Wastelander in a dirty, clinging white tee and black denim trousers, made a negative gesture.

"I ain't from round here, and have no idea what you're talking about. Now stop bothering me before I give you a buckshot sandwich to chew on."

Shit! Even the women here were scary and tough as nails; he ought to have figured that by now. In any case, he needed someone who knew the town, like a resident. After some thought, he remembered the woman serving food near the crater. She wore a yellow jumpsuit, didn't she, and was attractive in an ice-queen kinda way. She would be easy enough to find, because all he had to do was go downwards.

She was still there, griddling stuff on a … griddle thing. But the blue eyes that turned to look at him were cold and unfriendly.

"Yeah, what can I get you?"

Butch suddenly realised he was extremely hungry. So while he was here, he might as well… he put on his best woman-charming smile.

"Whatever you've got cooking there, darlin', it looks mighty good!"

Her steely gaze didn't alter. "It's squirrel kebabs. I bet you haven't ever tasted any, have you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, darlin' …"

"Don't you _darlin_' me! You're that Vault guy, aren't you? Saw you in the grand parade. Guess you think you're some kind of celebrity that we should all be sucking up to."

_Jees, was there no end to these aggressive chicks! _"Hey, uh, take a chill pill, girl. I ain't no celebrity. Look, I really only came for some directions, though something to eat wouldn't go amiss." He repeated the question he'd asked earlier.

The woman in the yellow jumpsuit listened with what seemed like growing amusement. Then she said, "Sure, I can tell you where that is." She pointed. "See that stairway with the sign saying 'Luxury apartment'. Follow it round all the way up. House is right in front of you, up against the outer wall." She smiled in a way that made Butch a little uneasy. "You want some of these?"

"Thanks, I'll take a couple."

"Fourteen caps then. Now be sure to mention me to your fine friends. The name's Jenny Stahl. I know you won't forget it."

"How could I ever do that, Jenny?" He left with the impression his flirting was wasted on her. Munching appreciatively on the kebabs, he followed her directions. At the top of the stairway were two houses. The one furthest away had two stories and was in rather better condition than the average Megaton dwelling, the other facing him looked nothing more than a dilapidated shack. But Jenny had definitely said the empty house was nearer to the outer wall, hadn't she?

Butch shrugged mentally. _Guess they ain't the grateful sort around here. _He stepped forward, and tried the latch. It was locked. _Damn! Maybe try knocking. Wait, what was this dagger doing sticking in here? _He pulled it out, then used it to rap on the door.

The lock clicked, and the door was suddenly flung wide open. Facing him was a muscular-looking man with a grizzled beard and an angry expression.

He rasped, "How many times! This ain't a fucking john, shitface!"

Butch gasped, "Uh …. Sorry, wrong house!"

"You bet your bastarding life it's the wrong house … wait, what the hell are you doing with that?"

Butch became aware he was still holding the dagger by the blade, and sought to drop it. But the man was too quick for him, his hands moving in a blur of speed that Butch could scarcely have imagined possible, so that on the instant his arm was twisted behind his back and given an excruciating wrench that forced him to release the weapon.

Still gripping him in a painful arm lock from behind, the man held up the gleaming knife before the Tunnel Snake's terrified eyes. Butch was uncomfortably aware of the man's breath on his neck, smelling of cigarette smoke and whisky, and of the proximity of his bristling beard, clenched teeth and eyes bulging with rage.

"Look, man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothing by it. I just found it in the door … aargh!"

The man had given his arm another violent twist, moving the dagger closer to his throat.

"You're a fucking liar! Are you another messenger from _her_, from the Raiders? You'd better use your mouth before I tear you a whole new one."

"In the name of Jesus and all the saints!" Butch was practically weeping. "Please don't kill me! I'm not a messenger from anybody. I'm Butch Deloria from Vault 101, and I came here looking for the empty house. A woman called Jenny … Jenny Stahl, said it was here … she'll tell you, if you ask her. And I found the damn knife sticking in your door, its god's honest truth!"

He shut his eyes, and prayed. To his relief, the pressure on his arm lessened, and he heard a chuckle.

"Jenny Stahl told you to come here? That figures. And you're one of those cowardly shits from a Vault? I remember seeing you …"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I was in the parade … and I don't expect any celebrity treatment." Butch opened his eyes. The man was grinning at him, but not in a particularly friendly fashion.

"Well, you ain't gonna get it. I hate you Vault arseholes."

"Okay, that's cool. Just let me be on my way, and I won't trouble you again."

The man gave another chortle. "Not so fast! First you and me need to have a little chat."

"Nah, you don't wanna do that, I'd just bore you with my lame conversation and …"

"Oh yes I do. You see you and me happen to have a mutual acquaintance, someone whose affairs I need to catch up on. I want you to tell me all about your friend from the Vault: what she's been doing and what she's planning to do. And I'm not taking no for an answer."

* * *

"That's the empty house, just a way down from Mr Jericho's. Billy told me not to play near there. But I did anyway, and sometimes I'd see people go in and out. I remember Mr Moriarty was there once. He's dead now, like Billy is." Maggie's face remained in solemn contemplation for a while, then lightened somewhat. "Are you gonna live there with Arta? Can I come visit?"

_What will happen if Arta goes away? Will I have to stay there on my own? And suppose she …_

Bryan shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I will. And I'll have to ask Arta if you can come round."

"Oh, yeah, of course. Like if I could do a sleepover, say. But if you don't live there, where will you go?"

"I've an aunt in Rivet City who might be able to look after me."

"Really? But Rivet City is such a long way, so they say."

"Arta said she'll help me get there."

"I think she's a nice lady, even if …"

"Even if what?"

"Nothing. You going in now?"

"Yeah."

"Bye then."

"Bye."

Bryan was about to knock on the door, then was surprised to see Butch leaving the neighbouring house.

"Hey Butch!"

Butch started, then recovered himself. Touching fists with Bryan, he asked, "How's my man?"

"Good. Great! Say, are you coming to Arta's with me? Her house is right here."

"Yeah, I know." Muttering, "At least I do _now._"

"What's that, man, you okay? You look jumpy."

"Ah, its nothing. Kinda rough day."

* * *

*It's a rather shorter chapter than usual again, though I'm hoping but not guaranteeing that there's enough leftover material to reduce the next update time. Like it didn't after the last chapter.

_Sentinel Kodiak: _Previously a Paladin, Kodiak seems the most likely candidate to take over command from Sarah, assuming promotion would be made within the Pride. (Glade is probably more experienced, but the heavy weapons guy never gets made leader). Kodiak is also Owyn Lyons personal protégé from boyhood, after he spared him and other non-mutated children during the Scourge of the Pitt. His real name is Greg Bear (a kodiak is a variety of bear).

_Dawn Dusk: _Yes, it's really her name according to Wiki. You've got to wonder whether any parent would name their offspring thus, but then there's _Zowie Bowie _et al.

_Nothing like a bit of S and M: _I absolutely refuse to mention that awful _Fifty Shades of _… now there I've gone and done it! Its part of the fiendish effect that you can't avoid referring to it. You know even though in a sense I'm proud that 'one of our own' has been such a run away success in the 'real' publishing world, I just wish it had been someone who can write about sex without inducing laughter. And (there's the truth of it) I wish it had been me!

_The Misfortunes of Virtue: _From the little I've read, it's a story that supports De Sade's argument that being virtuous is stupid, and being evil is smart. A view that Burke would probably approve of, and certainly might find useful in the 'tuition' of Mei Wong. Not recommended as light reading (it's often tediously wordy but is still disturbing enough to make _Fifty Shades _look extremely tame in comparison.)

_Treason:_ I don't think there's any real evidence in the game that Rothchild is disloyal or is contemplating deposing Lyons, but he always struck me as someone not greatly enthusiastic about the current direction of the Brotherhood in the East. 'Treasonous' sympathy for the Outcasts would also seem most likely amongst the Scribes, particularly the Orders of the Sword and Shield, who are most concerned with the search for technology.

_Liberty Prime: _the 'giant robot' is Rothchild's pet project and the only counter to Enclave Vertibirds (when working).*


	38. Last Supper

Chapter 38 Last Supper

Katrina drew the flaming sword and raised it skywards in a great arc of fire. From every corner of Scrapyard the gesture was imitated, a host of torches flaring in the darkness. She looked out upon a sea of faces bathed in the glare of red, yellow and orange light. These colours were reflected again from the surface of the polished mail that covered and protected her breasts, and from the woven metal skirt that extended from beneath her bare navel to just above her knees, and from the silver skullcap that fitted tightly on her head.

Punching the air with her fist, she shouted, "Who is the bringer of death?"

A multitude of throats gave back the reply.

"_Azrael!"_

"Who holds all life in her hands?"

The air thrummed with the response.

"_Azrael!"_

Katrina took a long breath, paused a significant heartbeat until she judged the exact dramatic moment had arrived.

"Serve the Angel of Death in all things!"

She glanced sideways, and nodded. From slightly lower than where she stood, on a roof at the highest point of the junk yard, her band of Holy Whores began a raucously enthusiastic chorus of _She is Gathering the Faithful to her Bosom, _jumping up and down to make their own tattooed and brightly painted naked breasts jiggle wildly. Their inability to sing in tune was more than made up for by their fantastical and lewd gyrations, and partly drowned out by the discordant whine of homemade fiddles, along with the drumming and clashing of Raiders beating on car roofs and other pieces of junk. The ecstatic responses of the worshippers, most of whom didn't know the words to the song, made up the rest of the cacophony of sound carrying far across the Wastes.

Katrina gave the slightest of winces. The singing, like the holiness, would need some working on. But it served its purpose, and there was no doubt that the young women had the whoring part of their new profession off to a tee. Like everything else, it had been surprisingly easy to bring about. A new religion was being born. And one that she'd created in her own image.

It was true that it would have been much harder without the help of her new friends, Leo and Agatha in particular. Their extensive knowledge of the past and the resources of their hidden library had proved invaluable. With their assistance, she and Arta had thrashed out the basics for the worship of the Angel of Death in a matter of days. It was relatively simple to adapt the ways of pre-war religions to the Wasteland; everything in terms of rituals and organisation was already there for them to use. And brainstorming sessions had produced plenty of new ideas. _Some of the best were all my own. _

The din accompanying _She is Gathering the Faithful_ drew to a close as Katrina raised the _Shiske_ sword again. With a host of devotees at her command, finding the components had been straightforward. While it had not been, like Arta's, lovingly manufactured by a master craftsmen, it worked perfectly well, and was a potent symbol of the supposed invisible presence of the Angel of Death amongst her followers. Having drawn their attention, Katrina placed a finger to her lips for silence.

She pronounced clearly, "Let the sacred banner be brought forth."

From one of the larger open spaces of Scrapyard on her right marched a solid mass of Raiders, in a ranked formation that showed the beginnings of military discipline. The front row carried long poles, tipped at the end with bound daggers like spears, extended forward to form a pointed hedge of weapons. Each wore his or her hair in a crest of spikes.

Instead of a blade, the centremost Raider in the Phalanx carried a furl of cloth on the end of his pole. As he drew nearer, the dark folds of material unrolled, to flap in the night wind. The flag revealed was midnight black, and across its diagonal, sloping left in the _bend sinister_, was a jagged slash of gold like a tongue of flame.

The Raider offered the banner to Katrina, who seized and lifted it along with the sword, waving both wildly in the air. The sound of the crowd's cheering was like crashing waves on the shore of a distant and unseen ocean.

* * *

_I love the way she … prepares me. Sometimes so gently at first, with just a touch here, a graze of the lips there, in places that I don't expect, which make it all the more delightful. Teasingly creeping into my sensitive zone, like a stealth hunter, brushing against the tendrils of my awareness, gradually wakening them to the coming invasion. And then when it has begun, building and building, keeping on with fierce, relentless pressure, never losing the rhythm, pushing it home all the way, setting my senses on fire, until the final explosion comes in screaming white light and I'm soaring through and beyond._

_How much I need her to be with me, always … and yet._

As Arta's impassioned moans ceased, Clover allowed her body to relax into hers, touching thighs, breasts and lips. Time slid by as they caressed each other, smoothed each other's hair in post-coital bliss.

Eventually Clover lay back in a contented fashion, and said matter-of–factly, "You know, this could become a pretty good home, especially with a few extra fittings to add some style and comfort. And Bryan can use the spare room to sleep in."

After a long pause, Arta said, "It's certainly a very convenient _base_."

Clover jerked her head upwards from the horizontal. "Oh," she said. Then: "Are we going out again so soon? Into the Wastes?"

"Yes. You know I never thought I'd say this, but there's something about going _out there_ that's addictive. A feeling that you're heading somewhere that's become familiar, and yet you never know quite what might happen."

Clover said, "I know plenty of people that feel like that, though a lot of them are plain, stark crazy. But c'mon, surely we've deserved some rec time? And what about the conferences?"

"We're leaving after first light tomorrow." When Clover gave a little groan, Arta added. "I'm sorry, but there's another reason to hurry which I'll explain when …"

There was a hammering on the door.

Clover shouted quickly, "Hold on a bit, until we're decent!"

There was some giggling from outside while they searched for and put on their underwear. With modesty partially restored, Clover opened the door on Bryan and Butch, with Wadsworth bobbing up and down behind them.

The robotic butler spoke in tones of suppressed outrage, "I'm sorry, madam, but these gentleman insisted that you'd want to see them. I hope I haven't acted incorrectly."

Arta said, "No, it's fine, you can return to your duties." She observed with amusement the obvious interest of the pair in the semi-clothed state of their hosts. _Bryan's only eight, so its simple childish curiosity rather than hormones._

With the opposite thought in mind, Clover asked Butch sweetly, "How was your time at _Gob's?" _

He made a sour face. "Not one that I'm gonna forget in a hurry. Those broads had some very peculiar ideas about …"

Oblivious to the byplay, Arta broke in impatiently, "Another time might be more appropriate for your whore house tales." Then speaking deliberately to the boy. "Bryan, I've got some good news. We'll be taking you to see your aunt in Rivet City. Then you can decide if you want to live with her."

"Gee, thanks Arta! I mean I'd love to stay with you, but it seems like you've got so many things going on. So maybe it'll be best that way, and you can come and visit me any time."

Mussing his hair, Arta said, "You can absolutely bet that I will whenever I can!"

Butch stroked his chin. "Rivet City, eh? I'll certainly be tagging along if that's where you're going."

Clover said sharply, "You'll need to be up early then. We're leaving at dawn."

"Jees, what's the hurry, dude? At least let's get the right amount of shut-eye!"

Arta said carefully, "I need to go to the Citadel first, to visit the head of the Brotherhood. After that it's not so far to Rivet City."

Clover seemed to be thinking hard. Then she said, "Talking to Owyn Lyons is so urgent? Surely not until the conferences are over? So long as Rothchild's here …"

Butch likewise furrowed his brow. "Hey, even Clo don't know what's going down. How 'bout you spill the beans, Arta?"

_Damnation! I'd rather have left off discussing this for now. _After some hesitation, Arta said, "Once we've got Bryan to Rivet City, then I'm looking for my dad in the Jefferson Memorial. It was the last place anyone's seen him. But it'll be dangerous, there's probably gonna be Supermutants there, and I'm not asking anyone to go with me."

Butch began, "That's dandy, because I ain't intending to …" he stopped abruptly. "Look, I need to go outside for a piss."

Clover gave Arta a reproachful look. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"I suppose I hadn't fully made up my mind." _But that's a lie. I knew, straight away, what I had to do._

There was a moment's awkward silence, before Bryan said, "I know its a little past my bedtime, but I sure am hungry!"

Welcoming the distraction, Arta said cheerily. "Guess what, Bryan, so am I! I'm sure a last meal before sleeping won't do us any harm."

"Supper, Aunt Aggie would call it," Clover put in.

_Supper? _"Yeah, a … last supper. We've got some Mirelurk cakes in the fridge, or some iguanas on sticks as light bites."

Bryan said greedily, "Mirelurk cakes for me!"

Hovering helpfully in the doorway, Wadsworth boomed, "And I do believe, Madame, there's a bottle or two of Chateau Margaux 2077. A good year." After a pause, he added, "Well, for vintage wine, anyway. Perhaps a trifle … too warm."

_You can say that again! _"An excellent idea, Wadsworth. We'll go downstairs to eat. Though Bryan's a bit young to be drinking wine."

"Aw, Arta!"

Clover said, "Maybe as a special treat he can have a little watered down. They do that in some places."

"I guess he can." Arta glanced at Butch. "Are you gonna be joining us after you've … done your business?"

He looked evasive. "Perhaps I'll stay out a while, take a smoke too. And it so happens I just ate."

Bryan said, "C'mon, man, you can't miss the party!"

Butch shrugged. "Well I guess I wouldn't say no to glass of wine or two when I come back. If its gonna be a celebration."

Clover said with enthusiasm, "Yes, we should make it into a house-warming party! We could put some boxes together for a table …"

Catching the festive spirit, Wadsworth said excitedly, "And I could find something to drape over them, even put out some old candles! Oh, it'll be a marvellous occasion!"

* * *

Jenny Stahl frowned in the darkness. The door to Jericho's shack was locked, and her knocks echoed amidst the mocking silence of an empty dwelling. _He wasn't at Moriarty's, so where else would the drunken prick go?_

Her eyes automatically sought out the formerly empty house, and she took a dozen strides in its direction, stopping puzzled when she heard the unexpected sound of music and raised voices, and saw bright light through the cracks in the walls. A party? If Jericho intended to screw his supposed ex, surely he wouldn't go about it like this? In any case, she could hear the piping tones of a child rather than his familiar cynical growl.

_Maybe he figured I was pissed with him and wouldn't come to his house. He could be waiting for me at the Water Processor. _She paused irresolutely. Why was she even doing this, chasing after a man she didn't love or respect? A tingle between her thighs told her the answer. _Sexual excitement! _After years of suppressing her lusts, she'd no longer been able to resist the lure of danger that Jericho represented. Why had she kept up a façade of respectability for so long? Deceived herself along with the world in general?

There were commonsense reasons, of course. It wouldn't be nice to have people laugh behind her back and call her a Raider's moll, in exactly the way she'd gossiped about so many others. It might not even be good for business. People didn't easily forget your past in Megaton. Nova would have a field day, whatever Lucy had promised. She ought to stop this now, before it was too late.

There had to be other better ways to do things. She'd previously shunned the idea of a family, being more concerned with establishing her business, in the face of the addiction of one brother and the surliness of the other. But it was another obvious route to fulfilment that needed to be chosen soon before her fertility diminished further. Lucy had spoken of Simms's attraction to her, and she was sure he would be willing … if she didn't appear shop soiled. He even had his own well-behaved, adorable son in case she was unable to give birth. It absolutely made sense.

The wetness seeping into her panties contradicted all reason. _Just one last fling! One more wallow in the mire of filth! _Cursing her weakness, she walked quickly in the direction of the water plant.

She was expecting to hear only the clank of machinery when she opened the door. Instead it was punctuated by the sound of two people moaning to an all too familiar rhythm. _The bastard! He's brought his little whore here, to our own special place! _Infuriated, Jenny marched in the direction of the backroom, then halted in astonishment.

Sonora Cruz was facing away from her, completely naked except for her Stetson and fringed brahmin-skin boots. These remaining items of clothing were especially appropriate, as she was riding Sheriff Lucas Simms in the Cowgirl position, her bronzed buttocks and breasts moving sensuously above the deep ebony of his well-muscled thighs and chest. The ecstatic sounds issuing from their lips indicated both were enjoying the ride immensely.

Sonora was leaning slightly backwards rodeo style as she thrust forward her bosom, blocking Simms' view of Jenny for the moment. She stepped back quickly into the shadows, thinking furiously. There had to be a way to take advantage of this unexpected circumstance. Meanwhile she was regarding Sonora critically. The Regulator looked in reasonable shape for a woman of her middle years, though Jenny cattily concluded there was a pronounced scrawniness to her frame that reduced the attractions of her womanly features. Also her uncompromisingly short, dark hair had already gained a sprinkling of grey. Jenny was convinced that her own feminine assets were curvaceously fresher and altogether more attractive to a man of Simms' maturity. If she played her cards right, she could easily outmaneuver this upstart, overripe gunslinger.

Sonora Cruz had turned around to face away from Simms, presenting him with a close up view of her rear end. Pushing back the brim of her hat, and patting her bottom cheeks, she drawled, "C'mon, Lucas, I want you to finish by shooting your load in my tight hole."

_So you like to talk and play dirty! So much the better! I'll come across as the pure but temptingly fertile wife and mother._ Jenny decided to wait a little longer. She could appreciate now how Lucy had enjoyed her own voyeuristic opportunity, and figured she could risk a little self-pleasuring. And the poor things had clearly been dying for a good fuck. Best let them get it out of their system.

* * *

_Wadsworth was right, there's something special about having everyone gathered together like this. _Arta felt a warm glow, both from the excellent wine, and from seeing her companions assembled around her. Leo had joined Clover and Bryan, and Butch had returned at the same time. _That makes six for supper, including Wadsworth, even if he can't eat, and Leo can't sit. _The 'table' itself looked attractively laid out, the promised candles casting a romantic light over the stained white cloth, actually an old sheet stretched over wooden boxes. The food was laid out on plates, with the wine in a mixture of glasses and cups, and there was a pleasant hum of conversation. Her pipboy, set to speaker, was picking up one of the old GNR tunes from Agatha's station.

_I'm tickled pink that things are rosy,  
And skies are blue once again.  
Let the bygones go bye-bye,  
No more will I sigh or cry._

_(Do-de-do-do)._

I_'m tickled pink the moon is yellow,_  
_And I'm your fellow tonight.  
Soon we'll greet that red-letter day,  
When I will pop the question and you'll say okay.  
Say then we'll be married in the month of May._

"That one goes out specially to my dear husband Leo," the old woman was saying, causing the Supermutant to brush at his eyelids, and sneeze.

_Perhaps this is a good moment for 'a few words' from the host._

Her face beaming and flushed to a rosy tint, Arta got to her feet and spoke, a trifle tipsily.

"I'd like to say how wonderful it is that we're all here together. Especially considering what we've had to go through to make it to Megaton alive. In fact it's probably the greatest miracle of all, and definitely deserves a celebration."

Arta's little speech was received with drunken cheers and table thumping from Clover and Butch, clapping from Bryan and cries of "Bravo!" from Wadsworth.

Leo added, with a trace of wistfulness, "I only wish Agatha could be here too in person."

"And Dogmeat, of course!" put in Clover.

"And let's not forget Katrina." Arta suddenly felt a little maudlin. What about Jericho? Or Mei Wong? What about those of her friends and companions who hadn't survived, or had met some other miserable fate? They had helped her on her way, and deserved to be present as well.

Even some of her enemies, alive, dead or presumed dead, might have made interesting company. Allowing her imagination to run free, she mentally transformed the table into a long oak one, set with silver cutlery and white bone china, surrounded by twelve tall-backed, elaborately carved chairs. In her mind's eye, Amata, a vision of loveliness in a pink pre-war ball gown, was flirting with Sam Walsh in white collar and tails. On one long side of the table Billy Creel was entertaining Jericho and Silver with tricks and jokes, while Caleb and Mei Wong were chatting seriously and intimately together. And at the head, Burke, attired in a freshly pressed and laundered suit, held Eulogy Jones, Gob and the Antagoniser fascinated by his table talk. With a slight smile, he raised a glass in her direction.

She shook herself and the vision faded. To daydream about never-could-have-beens was harmless fun perhaps. But it contained a serious reminder.

Banging her spoon on the table for attention, she said, "I think the time has come to remember our friends who can't be here. Alive or dead, we owe them much, and we should drink to them now." She raised her wine glass.

"To the Companions!"

* * *

Sonora Cruz was down on all fours, her rump pushed upwards, moaning urgently. Lucas Simms was kneeling to pump vigorously into her from behind, also wearing his Sheriff's hat. He had one hand on Sonora's buttocks and another fondling her breasts.

_That animal-like position really suits you, my dear, _Jenny thought. _Seeing as you're bellowing like a lovesick brahmin_! These uncharitable reflections didn't stop Jenny enjoying her voyeuristic role to the full. She felt completely in command of herself and the situation, sure that she could make herself come whenever she felt like it. She'd seldom had this sensation of total _control,_ and it was absolutely wonderful_. _

"Jees that hurts so good!" Sonora gasped. "Just a little deeper!"

Jenny had observed the size of Simm's ramrod-like organ as he'd put it in, and judged that he would be stretching Sonora in a most satisfying manner. _Let me get some of that inside me, _she thought, wriggling her fingers, _and I'm not gonna miss Jericho very much._

"That's it! Keep going! I'm gonna come!"

Thus encouraged, Simms accelerated into a frenzy of thrusting which had Sonora bucking like an out of control brahmin. It also prompted Jenny to speed up her own self-stimulation to the point where she was riding surging orgasmic waves in time with Sonora's cries of pleasure, allowing herself to reach her own quivering peak just ahead of the Regulator's final shriek of satisfaction. It was important to time this exactly right. Wiping the moist evidence from her fingers on the front of her panties, she quickly zipped up her jumpsuit, and prepared to make her entry.

When she sauntered into the room, Simms was just unleashing powerful ejaculatory spurts deep inside Sonora, accompanied by a series of heart-felt groans. _Perfect timing! Catching him right when he's spilling his seed should guarantee the maximum level of embarrassment. _Jenny did her best to combine an expression of shock with excitement and a shade of amusement. She didn't want Simms to think she was a complete prude. The excitement was easier to convey; her eyes were still shining from the climax she'd undergone only seconds before.

"Lucas!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth. "What in the world are you doing?

Simms' face showed precisely the right amount of guilt and shock. "This ain't what it looks like, Jenny!" he protested.

It was much as Jenny could do to avoid bursting out laughing. His instinctive denial despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary showed his brain was not yet engaged … unsurprisingly. It was also exactly the response she was hoping for.

"Why what else could it look like, Lucas? Though I can scarcely believe my own eyes!"

Sonora Cruz, to her credit, had recovered much more quickly from her surprise, even though the physical situation of Simms having to withdraw his fast softening member could hardly have been more blush inducing. Getting rapidly to her feet, she seized hold of the front of Jenny's jumpsuit and slammed her against the wall.

"Who the fuck's this, Lucas?" she shouted.

"It … its … er…"

"Sorry, didn't get that." Sonora shook Jenny fiercely. "First thing I wanna know is what in tarnation you're doin' here at this hour of the night. Next thing is how you two are on such cosy first-name terms."

Simms finally managed, "She's the local food stall owner."

"For real? I don't see many catering opportunities in this place. Just what kinda Peeping Thomasina are you?"

Jenny wasn't much scared. Sonora was a Regulator, which meant she wasn't supposed to harm the innocent, and she was hardly likely to do that in front of Simms. The younger woman remained composed enough to reflect that being roughed up by a female gunslinger wearing only a cowgirl hat and boots would probably take a top place in Nova or Lucy's fantasies.

Doing her best to sound outraged, she protested, "I only came here to see Walter about some trouble with our pipes!"

"Oh yeah? You sure you ain't been playing with your own pipes while ogling other folks private affairs? Sneaking down here in the dead of night don't seem very natural to me. Maybe I oughta pay your business a visit and shake it down."

That did give Jenny a momentary chill, but Simms said, "Sonny, you know you can't go harassing respectable local traders like that! C'mon, calm down. She didn't mean no harm, and we should be apologising to her. Why don't you let me deal with this?"

"Because I don't think she's quite so virtuous as she pretends. Whatever, you sort it out." Sonora reached for her Regulator long coat and shrugged it on. Strapping on her gun belt, she gave her pistol a meaningful tap. "I'll be watching you, Little Miss Innocent."

By the time she had strode forcefully from the room, Simms had put on his own duster, and with it regained some of his dignity.

He said in apologetic tones, "Jenny, I don't know what to say."

_He's gonna fall into my lap like a ripe mutfruit!_

"Lucas, you don't have to say anything." She regarded him from under her eyelashes. "I understand how men get … urges. It's only natural when you've been without a woman for so long. And I know how much you miss your wife." She stepped forward to place an apparently consoling hand on his arm.

He met her eyes with his own dark ones. "It's so good you understand. I do miss her… very much. And Harden does too."

"Of course he does." She leaned in a little closer. "He misses having a mother. But you know, Lucas … " she moistened her lips just a trifle; "If you don't mind me saying, what you and that boy deserve is someone who's there whenever she's needed. Not some fly-by-night that's gonna be chasing folks across the Wastes half the time."

"Thinking about it, you're absolutely right. But … " he scratched his head. "Where am I gonna find someone so devoted?"

Jenny moved to lean back against the desk, carefully positioning herself to make sure Simms could see all her most attractive features to their best advantage, especially the prominent curve of her breasts through the yellow jumpsuit. She half-closed her eyes in a sultry fashion, and stroked her hair.

"Why don't you try hanging out around my stall some time? I'm sure you're bound to come across someone who'll take a fancy to such a fine-looking man as yourself."

_It's all come together perfectly._

He smiled. "You know I might just do that."

* * *

"_The Angel of Death came to us out of the Great Darkness. And we knew her not. Therefore did she strike us down with many … dive … divers aff … afflictions, until we believed."_

Katrina half-listened while Friska, one of the few of her Holy Whores with at least some ability to read, declaimed a passage from the first chapter of _The Book of Souls. _In fact it was the first and _only _chapter, until Agatha wrote some more. Although the old woman had perfectly captured the scriptural style, it meant that semi-literates like Friska had to wrestle with the vocabulary. Nevertheless Katrina was content to let Friska struggle, as for the most part her audience were more concerned with the way she paused to cross and uncross her shapely legs, or slowly and sensuously licked her finger to help turn the pages, or leant forward to let her breasts dangle over the book, than with actually attending to what she was saying.

Agatha might have been disappointed, but as far as Katrina was concerned, it was all part of the performance. The Holy Whores had been the second best idea she'd had, next to the Spartan Phalanx, of course. They really spiced up potentially dull religious ceremonies, and Katrina was at a loss to think why they hadn't been more popular with the people of the past. More importantly they provided essential motivation, especially for the Phalanx.

That had caused some serious disagreements in her discussions with the others. Leo and Agatha had argued that the whole Holy Whore thing was degrading. Arta, though, had backed her point of view. Katrina had noticed that the Vault woman was usually prepared to let her have the final say over most matters pertaining to religion. The logic of that was to Katrina irrefutable. She knew her own people, and had an instinct for what she could get them to accept, and what she couldn't.

The Spartan Phalanx, now providing the crowd with additional entertainment via marching displays and mock fights, was an illustration of the kind of compromises that had to be made. To expect its members to entirely emulate the austere lifestyle of their historical namesakes was completely unrealistic. However there were other ways to make them feel part of a special group with a tradition. Their spiked hair resembled the nodding crest worn atop a Spartan hoplite's helmet, a style that would henceforth be forbidden to all other Raiders.

More significantly every member of the Phalanx had to renounce the use of any seriously addictive drugs on pain of death. In this Katrina was in full agreement with Leo and Agatha. While drugs could be effective in combat, and were an essential form of recreation for most Raiders, the Phalanx was intended to become the elite force that had been at the heart of most successful armies in history. Napoleon had had his Guard, Alexander his Companions, the Persians their Immortals. As well as being looked up to by the rest of the army, the Phalanx needed to be controllable and disciplined, to remain steady and ready to act decisively at vital moments in a battle. Crazies who were drugged up to their eyeballs couldn't be relied on to do that. The withdrawal symptoms would also usefully serve as an initiation through ordeal, and as a mark of toughness and shared suffering.

But there had to be compensations, and it was here that Katrina had put her foot down about imposing any further kinds of abstinence. The Phalanx would get first choice of sexual partners, including from the Holy Whores. They would be given better food, the best weapons and, for leaders only, supplies of Radaway. So far there had been no lack of recruits, and Katrina intended to steadily increase their numbers, the initial target being three hundred, to represent the most heroic of their historical counterparts.

That would be necessary with the challenges ahead. The first, and perhaps least difficult, was to unite all of the Raiders of the Wasteland under one banner, wiping out any who refused to join. With several major tribes, including Evergreen Mills and the remnants of Bethesda already converted, the Angel of Death's Army had a significant numerical advantage, but the Phalanx could give them the edge to decisively crush any resistance. Katrina was so confident this would be the case, she'd sent out agents to infiltrate and encourage some potential enemies to join together. It would be easier to defeat them en mass, and better training for her army, than to fight sporadic guerrilla actions.

The second phase, the extermination of feral ghouls and mutant wildlife, Katrina was less convinced about, though Arta had insisted it must be attempted. Apart from giving the army the thrill of participating in the ultimate hunting expedition, there were obvious benefits for both Raiders and ordinary Wastelanders if it succeeded. But Katrina doubted that it would. Nature, whether mutated or not, was very resilient and able to renew itself. And the casualties and expenditure of ammunition could weaken her army more than the potential gain in experience and combat training. She suspected Arta had ordered this near impossible task as a distraction, to stop the Raiders reverting to plundering the innocent. The Deathclaws in particular she was determined to leave alone

And after that … everything would get a lot tougher though more exciting. She turned her mind back to the climax of the ceremony.

"Bring forward the prisoners!"

A line of naked men and women, marked with the signs of abuse, shuffled into the torchlight, casting terrified looks around them. They were herded by their guards towards the grim objects awaiting them. Pits, gallows, stakes. And some specially captured Molerats.

Brandishing the sword and flag, Katrina screamed, "Death to the Unbelievers!"

The crowd responded hysterically with a chant of "_Death, death, death!"_

As she watched the proceedings unfold in all their horror, Katrina felt not a smidgeon of guilt about keeping Arta and the others in ignorance of this part of the ritual. The Raiders' other addiction, torture and murder, wasn't likely to disappear overnight. And there were inevitably going to be prisoners who would have to be dealt with somehow. Arta would be appalled if she knew, but perhaps she might acknowledge in some corner of her soul the brutal logic behind it.

Feeling the sweat running down her body, Katrina regulated her breathing in an attempt to keep familiar urges under control. There was no doubt this kind of power was an aphrodisiac. She would need the attentions of several of her Holy Whores afterwards. Friska's sparkling eyes, rosebud mouth and long, lithe body looked particularly appealing.

* * *

Clover looked at the empty wine glasses, dirty dishes and guttering candles left on the table, and sighed.

"The party's over. It's time to clear up and turn out the lights."

"Wadsworth can do that." _And if he can manage to avoid breaking anything, maybe I'll let him trim my hair sometime._

"He can't set up a time loop so the party never ends, can he?"

Arta hugged her disconsolate looking companion. "Got the post-party blues? Well, I haven't, I'm completely exhausted. It seems like the day's gone on forever."

"I know what you mean. Let's hit the sack then."

They paused at the top of the stairs to view Bryan peacefully asleep in the spare room, his chest rising and falling softly, his expression angelic.

Clover asked, "Does it make you want to have your own?"

Arta shook her head. "Yes … and no. I've chosen a hard and dangerous path. The Wasteland already has enough orphans. Let's go to sleep."

* * *

_*_How come this chapter has come out later, and is shorter than usual, you may be asking? Especially when I said last time it would be out even quicker. And hardly anything much happens except they have a party. What the hell is going on?

Yes, I know, I know! After careful thought I've split one mega-long chapter into two shorter ones (again). However the difference from last time is that the next one in line is actually finished (it may need some minor editing and perhaps I'll add some odd bits, but its essentially complete). So my decision is purely editorial, making them both more manageable in size. And frankly so that I get more hits and opportunities for people to notice the story.

The bonus though is that I can say with confidence the next chapter will be out within a week, (probably on Friday) short of my unexpected death or some other huge and terrible natural disaster. In fact I will take precautions so that even if some awful calamity occurs (short of a major asteroid strike) someone will bring the next chapter out. And you will thank me for doing this, as its one you really won't want to miss!

And so on to the notes proper:

_Bend sinister: a_ term in heraldry for a device, such as a shield, with a decorative bar across it sloping from top right to bottom left (_sinister _derives from the latin for 'left'). On the flag, it represents the flaming sword, of course.

_Phalanx: _a formation developed by the Ancient Greeks and Macedonians, consisting of ranks of armoured _hoplites_ with spears. Fights well only to the front and at a huge disadvantage in the age of firearms. So despite the success of Caesar's Legion with melee weapons in _NV_, probably intended more as a ceremonial nod to tradition, and for the purposes of discipline and drill, than as a serious battle tactic.

_Chateau Margaux: _a famous wine of Bordeaux. I admit the chance of even one bottle remaining intact and unconsumed after two hundred years is pretty remote, but couldn't resist the opportunity for some dark apocalyptic humour.

_They do that in some places: _notably France, where giving children watered wine is considered harmless. Maybe the French imported the practice to the US along with their Freedom Fries.

_Renounce the use of any seriously addictive drugs: _it's interesting to reflect which drugs might be excluded from the ban. Many armies have permitted or even encouraged them in some form. British soldiers were traditionally allowed a tot of rum, American troops were provided with Luckys, etc. Getting Raiders to give up any drugs, let alone all of them, looks a tough one, but remember the motivations of religious fanaticism and the prestige of being part of a chosen elite. The conversion of the Arab tribes to Islam is one historical example of the transforming power of religion.

_The brutal logic: _it's also a kind of (admittedly harsh) justice, in that captured Raiders have inflicted such cruelties on others. Although offering them a last opportunity to convert or die would have been a more humane (and even practical) alternative, humanity is not a notable Raider characteristic.*


	39. I am Alpha and Omega

Chapter 39 I am Alpha and Omega

Moira Brown twisted uneasily in her sleep. Something was disturbing her enjoyment of the dream she was having. It was the sort of dream that only someone of Moira's uniquely fertile creative mindset was likely to have … or to enjoy … so she was reluctant to awaken.

_Yes, of course, a tickling stick! Enemies would be helpless with laughter, and could be finished off at leisure! _

Moira was convinced that her most useful inventive ideas had come to her as a result of dreams. This would have been no surprise to those researchers who had somehow survived the bizarre and often horrifyingly dangerous experiments she had coaxed them into performing.

Her first thought as she was finally forced back into consciousness was how to test the freshly dreamt-up theory. The last researcher sent to investigate the mating habits of Deathclaws hadn't yet returned. But someone would be needed to find out which Wasteland creatures were the most ticklish. And, of course, just as importantly, which weren't ticklish at all.

Her next reaction was surprise that she had woken in the middle of the night, followed by annoyance. Someone was thumping heavily on her front door!

"But we're _closed,_" she muttered to herself. This disturbance of her imaginative repose would not do. She must tell her bodyguard to convince the importunate caller to go elsewhere. In fact, she couldn't figure why he hadn't already done so.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she stumbled in semi-darkness towards the main room of the shop, immediately tripping and almost falling over something large and soft lying across the doorway.

_Oh my goodness! _In shock, Moira reached for the light switch.

"_You! _What are you doing here? Help! Murder! Thievery! Rape!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold your horses, Moira! First thing, he ain't dead, just unconscious. Second thing, I ain't about to rob you; and third, I certainly ain't gonna rape you."

"Why else would you be here at this hour? You know very well we're closed!"

"For reasons I ain't goin' into, I couldn't wait till opening time. I need a great deal of spare gun parts and ammo. And I need 'em now."

"But you can't just walk in here and …"

"Well, I just did. Look, I'll pay you a ten percent bonus for your trouble."

Moira's commercial brain reasserted itself. "_Fifteen _percent. And this'd better not take all night."

"Okay, deal! So, do you happen to have any sniper rifle parts?"

Moira moved towards the counter. "I've just had a complete one delivered, in pretty fine condition with a dozen clips."

"Great, I'll take it! Now, there's something else you got hanging up there I was interested in."

"Oh _this. _Its unique and so's my price."

"Just name it and add fifteen percent."

_Perhaps this isn't so bad after all._ Moira regarded her unexpected customer with calculation. _Scientific discovery often stems from happy accident. _"I'll let the bonus go in this case. But I'd like you to investigate a little something for me. Have you ever thought about the healing power of laughter in people's lives?"

* * *

Katrina pulled Friska's head towards her own, joining their lips together in a deep but tender kiss. They sat naked side by side, leaning towards each other, so that Friska's left breast gelled and lightly rubbed against Katrina's right. She let her arm slide down so that she could caress Friska's other nipple, while the other hand was left free to rove over the soft skin of the young woman's nether regions, fingers beginning to stroke at the delicate, wet folds of her entrance, making her hum with delight. At the same time Katrina parted her own thighs wider, aware of an insistent nose rubbing at her exposed and open labia.

This gentler but no less erotic kind of lovemaking followed the more vigorous forms of fornication that had taken place directly after the ceremony. After they had brought her to series of violent climaxes, fuelled by the aphrodisiacal energy unleashed by the religious rites, Katrina had dismissed her Holy Whores, apart from the dark-haired, doe-eyed Friska, and a muscular, blonde Raider called Sif.

Katrina appreciated the contrast between Friska's softness and Sif's strength. Together they were helping her to wind down into a more relaxed and mellow mood. As Friska's tongue slid lightly against her own, and Sif's began to delicately brush her outer lips, Katrina's mind was left free to wander, her thoughts less on the women present and pleasuring her, than those absent and unable to do so.

She felt surprisingly lonely. Since Lorel's death, there had been no one amongst the Raiders she was close to, or on whom she could rely. From political necessity, she'd had to appoint Raiders from other tribes as her immediate lieutenants, mostly those who had served in a similar role, under leaders now dead for refusing to accept the new faith. As of custom, she'd mated with several, but it had taken place without any real warmth.

Her thoughts turned in response to her newest friends, and made the inevitable imaginative leap of what it would be like to have them here with her. She was aware of the strength of feeling between Arta and Clover, though her cynical mind could dream up a scenario where they would separate. She wondered if Arta had entirely thrown off her strong attraction for her father, Jericho, despite his perfidious betrayal. And should she succumb to him again, Clover had the kind of fiery nature that would not easily forgive. _She would fall straight into my arms if I asked. _Katrina relished the idea of having the ex-slave all to herself, but her present fantasy was to enjoy both lovers together at once. Who could say that they wouldn't agree to that in reality?

Instead of Friska's soft brown eyes, she imagined looking deep into Arta's compelling blue ones, kissing her wide, full lips and the generous curve of her well-shaped breasts, drinking in her fresh and youthful innocence. Suiting her actions to her fantasy, Katrina dipped her head to suckle on the impudent perkiness of Friska's tits, and when she thrust her fingers deep into the warm tightness of the young Raider's womb, it was the woman from the Vault whose frantic moans she thought she could hear.

At the same time she replaced Sif's sturdy frame with an image of Clover's exotic and seemingly fragile beauty, making herself believe that it was the blonde's small nose and delicate mouth that were slyly teasing her sweet spot. Closing her eyes to visualise her two dream lovers greatly increased the erotic sensations she was experiencing, especially when Sif reached up to circle the hardened tips of her nipples. Feeling herself approaching her peak, she made an urgent gesture. Obediently Sif abandoned her ministrations, and reached for a long flexible rubber tube, carefully inserting it between Katrina and Friska. Thrusting their bodies together to mutually impale each other, their groans and gasps were in time as they built towards almost simultaneous intensely satisfying climaxes.

_Oh you little beauty! _Katrina opened her eyes again to see Friska alike gasping and running with sweat, her eyelids half-closed and lips parted in a dreamily fulfilled expression. The end of the old train car they were in was ripped open to look out onto a wilderness of devastation.

_I wish they could really have been here. But in a way, they were._

* * *

Arta dreamed.

She dreamed once more of the future, a future in which she was to play a leading part. But this time there were no personal battles, no long roll of enemies slain. Instead she seemed to be witnessing the unfolding of a history she herself had brought about.

From the sands of the Wasteland an army arose, with dark banners fluttering in the dusty wind, black crossed with a slash of flame. Raiders fought Raiders, and blood drenched them and ran into the ground, and the corpses in their multitudes lay bleaching in the sun. Slavers lay amongst them, and ghouls, and the slaughtered remains of the mutated creatures of the Wastes. And out of the sunset, the Supermutants came, with clubs and rifles and miniguns, marching, marching, in hoards to which there seemed no end.

She saw the Citadel, and the dark banners flew from it also, and from its gates came another army, smaller but clad in metal of silver-grey. In its van strode a robot the size of a tower. Flying machines flew over and around it, only to be blasted from the sky and dashed to ruin. The Potomac was bridged, and then the causeway to the Jefferson Memorial, and before them lay barriers of shimmering energy, and soldiers with helmets like the faces of demons. But the robot and its followers smashed through them all, and planted their black banners against its walls. The war cries and shouts of victory rose to the heavens. _For Elder Lyons and the Angel of Death!_

And then the perspective changed again. She felt she was inside the building, not in the flesh, but as an invisible, ethereal presence. She drifted along darkened corridors and abandoned chambers, seeing all around her dust, decay, ruin and neglect. Yet here and there were signs of habitation: braziers or barricades build for some defensive purpose. As her bodiless form flitted further into bowels of the Memorial, she yearned to see or hear someone living, to make her feel less like a helpless ghost, but there was only a succession of passageways and rooms and stairs descending far beneath the earth

At last she came to a chamber in a shadowy sub-basement, as barren of life as all the rest. Dust lay thick on a metal examination table, and a tray of surgical instruments. The monitoring equipment had long ago fallen silent.

A voice, calm and measured, spoke out of nowhere.

_It was here you were born._

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light. It was followed straight away by the sound of a baby crying, and the steady pulse of a heart monitor. The room had changed. The strong illumination showed up gleaming, well cared for equipment and the faces of the two people standing in front of her.

One was her father, wearing a surgeon's mask, cape and gloves, with Dr Li beside him, in her white lab coat. The years seemed to have dropped away from them, and they loomed over her, as though they were very tall, and she was very small.

She heard her father say, "We've got a daughter, Catherine, a beautiful baby girl!" He sounded happier than she could ever remember.

The voice that came next stirred her emotions like nothing else could. Melodious and overwhelmed with intense feeling, it had haunted so many of her dreams.

"Oh, James, we did it! A beautiful daughter!"

Arta tried to shift her vision to take in the speaker, who seemed to be right beside her, but was unable to do so.

Her father bent down towards her. "Hello there, little one. It's your daddy here. Daddy. You've got a bright future ahead of you, don't you know? Daddy's gonna take care of that. I wonder what you'll be like …"

The wonderful, lilting tones of her mother: "James do you think we should call her … James, I feel … James!"

_NO, this can't happen, don't take her away from me so soon!_

She heard her father, sounding horrified. "She's going into cardiac arrest! I'm starting resuscitation. Madison, get the baby out of here!"

_No, please! I don't want to go! MOMMA!_

The white light flashed again, and the room returned to darkness and silence.

She was drifting upwards, this time faster, sliding through walls and ceilings like a phantom. Back through a hallway with a broken pillar and a brazier burning. Onwards and through a doorway which felt as though it was the point of no return.

She was once again in the room with the soaring, domed ceiling, intersected by luminescent pipes, the squat, processor unit in the midst of it.

A voice, cold and sibilant:

_It is here you will die._

With another flash of light her vision and awareness changed.

Soldiers of the Brotherhood surrounded her. She herself was no longer bodiless but wearing a suit of black armour without a helmet. It felt surprisingly light and easy.

At her feet, a corpse was stretched out, clad as she was, except for the black horned helmet of an Enclave trooper, partially melted as though by intense heat. Close by she saw Sentinel Kodiak, slumped on the floor, eyes shut as if he was sleeping. A Brotherhood knight was kneeling to examine him, while others were tending to one another's wounds.

A small stairway led up to the thick bulkhead door she remembered from the dream in which her father had died. At the top of it, Knight Captain Dusk had removed her helmet to speak into an intercom.

"It's Dawn, Madison. Kodiak's dead but we've secured the main control room. What the hell's happening?"

From the intercom came the voice of Dr Li: "The purifier must have been damaged in the fighting. It's going to overload, unless it's activated immediately to disperse the energy. Somebody has to start it up, but the area's still heavily saturated with radiation."

"Okay, we're on it." Dusk turned to face her, Cupid's bow lips compressed tightly. "Look, I didn't want it to end like this, but someone's got to go in. And it seems like they aren't coming out again. We have to decide who, and damn quickly."

Arta heard her own voice, coming as if from far away.

"Why don't you do it?"

And then immediately, as though it were a kind of echo:

"_I'll do it. I'll go_."

Dusk paused, looking at her with awe in her eyes. "Seems like there's no getting between you and your destiny. Thank you. The Brotherhood and the Wasteland will always remember. Quick put this on."

Sights and sounds diminished as a bio-helmet was lowered onto her head. She felt herself climbing, her feet clanking on the metal steps. The bulkhead door slid aside, and she was in the control room, hearing Dr Li's voice:

"You'll only have seconds, hurry!"

Every step forward required an effort. The console at first seemed impossibly far away, and all the time her pipboy clicked, faster and faster. Heat rose and smoked from her boots as they touched the floor. But now the control panel was near, close enough to see the numerals on the keyboard. And it was in her mind that the activating sequence was two one six.

_Revelation 21:6: I am Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the Water of Life freely._

She reached the panel, and began entering the numbers. The whine of the processor increased, along with the heat shimmer.

_Is this how it ends? Or how it begins?_

She looked down at her pipboy reading. The radiation count flashed blood red.

_You can't die in a dream. _

_Can you? _

She pressed the activating button. An intense vibration followed, and the water in the cylinder before her swirled, clearing away the murk to reveal the statue of an august figure dressed in an archaic style. As the purifier started, and the Waters of Life began to flow, the outlines of Thomas Jefferson's face and those of the world around her blurred into one final, glorious light.

_It is finished. Father, into your hands I commit my spirit._

* * *

It was the cold hour before dawn. The Raider army was mobilising, quietly going about the tasks of packing weapons and supplies before marching. There was an air of tension about Scrapyard, a sense of expectancy, as though each man and woman present understood that a great undertaking had begun.

Watching them Katrina felt a shivering, adrenalin-generated thrill. It was all under her control now.

"You are in charge," Arta had said to her. "It doesn't matter if I'm not there, because you will be. Act as though the Angel of Death is present."

_She's given me a chance to attain almost goddess-like power. What can I do with it? What can I NOT do with it?_

Belief in that dark nemesis meant the Raiders here obeyed her without question. Soon, very soon, that would be true of every Raider in the Wastes. A vast, unified army that would follow her commands even if she asked them to march into hell itself. The objective Arta had chosen for them wasn't so far removed from that in difficulty, even if they weren't expected to achieve it on their own.

Katrina wondered what Leo would think if he knew of the final phase of the plan. The Supermutants would indeed be given a chance to live in peace. The hope was that a member of their own race could persuade them this was the best choice to make. It was a pious solution but one that Katrina couldn't envisage happening. And there was but a single alternative if they refused. Humanity united under one banner, the banner of the Angel of Death, would wipe them from the face of the earth.

All in Arta's name. But Katrina would hold the reins of power meanwhile. And what if Arta died?

_Yes, what would happen if she died?_

It could happen in one of a thousand ways: the lethal sting of a Radscorpion, a hammer blow from a Supermutant, a slash from the claws of a ghoul or Yao Guai, a dagger to the heart from an assassin, a bullet to the brain or the blast of a grenade; even a simple fall from the rocks. Such was the fragility of life in the Wastes.

And then … Katrina felt deep in her soul that this thing Arta had started would carry on, somehow. It would go on through those who believed in her, stronger than before, more powerful than if she were still alive. For the people of the Wastes would say that the Angel of Death had descended from heaven, and returned again from whence she had come. And when perils came, and their faith grew thin, they would look to the sky and remember. The living would ask her for courage and strength and mercy, and the dying for resignation and release.

The legend would never die.

* * *

Clover dreamed.

She dreamed that she was walking through the wastes with Arta. The land around was rocky and bare, with no life to be seen save the odd Radscorpion scuttling along in the distance. Ahead the cliffs formed what seemed an impassable barrier. They came to a halt beneath the frowning crags.

Clover noted for the first time that Arta was wearing the simple robes of a Wasteland wanderer.

"What are we doing here?"

"This is the Edge of the Wastes. You can't follow me any further. Not yet anyway."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I must return to my father. My work on earth is done."

"What are you talking about? How the hell's it finished? And James is still at the Memorial, isn't he?"

"He is … and he isn't. For you this is the future … one possible future, I should say. The fate of the Wasteland has already been decided. We're beyond the Third Day."

"The Third Day?"

"Look it up in the Bible. Or just accept that all time is relative."

"Don't start talking like Leo! And in any case, if time is relative then how …"

"There's no point trying to reason it out, Clo, you can't. The fact is, I'm leaving. And I was referring to my _other _father." She smiled. "You know '_Our Father which art in heaven;' _all that stuff."

"So you are the Angel of Death after all?"

"Say rather that I've _become _it. Through fulfilling the dreams of people like you."

"Does that mean we've _created_ you?"

"In part, yes. I started as a speck in a womb. Then I became plain Artemesia Wendell from Vault 101. A naïve girl who didn't know a Mirelurk from a mop." Without being aware of when the change had occurred, Clover realised Arta was wearing a blue and gold Vault jumpsuit.

"Bullshit! You were never plain anything. No one else could have done the things you have, the way you did them."

"Perhaps you're right. I might've been uniquely suited to the role I've taken on. But it needed more than that. Including some huge slices of luck." With the same seamless transition, she was wearing her black combat armour.

"Luck! More like some help from the big guy up there!" Clover paused, then added under her breath, "Respect and all that, big guy."

"Whatever you want to call it. I'm just pointing out that it wasn't only me. No one, no matter how talented, can achieve anything alone. Not even the Lone Wanderer."

"I guess that's true. And you know, though you've changed in a whole lot of ways, the inner you is the same. You're still the person that I loved … that I love now."

"Poor Clover! I hope you can remember me just the way I was. But there's gonna be one final change. There. What do you think?"

Clover said tentatively, "To be honest the eyes are a bit spooky. Gold isn't a natural colour for them to be."

"Sorry about that."

"But …" with determined cheerfulness: "the wings are real nice … they kinda suit you somehow."

"Thank you. I expect it'll take me a while to get used to them."

"Will you need them to …"?

"No, it doesn't work like that."

"The light … it's getting brighter … it's beginning to hurt my eyes!"

"Yes, that's because I'm about to leave."

Tears running down her cheeks, Clover cried, "Please! Must you go so soon?"

"I'm afraid I have to. Good-bye. But remember … angels live forever in the human mind. I'll be with you … always."

* * *

Arta woke. After the little oblivion that was sleep to wake again seemed almost a relief. She looked to find Clover already sitting up, bars of morning light striping her features, watching her closely.

"Did you have a rough night? You twisted and turned a lot in your sleep, sometimes cried out."

Arta inhaled deeply. "I'm fine, I slept well enough. It's only that I dreamt of my birth … and my death."

"That's … unusual. Both together."

"I suppose it is."

"I had a strange dream about you too. In it you …" Clover hesitated. "Arta, will we be together always? I mean forever."

"Forever's a long time."

There seemed no more to say after that, and they began their preparations for leaving.

* * *

Chief Scribe Rothchild stepped onto the porch of Burke's house and breathed in the early morning air. It still retained a dusty, almost metallic flavour, with more than a hint of brahmin dung. He eyed the hodgepodge of structures around him, and the few gaunt-looking Wastelanders who'd bothered to rise at the crack of dawn, and sighed. Such a pity that jackass of a scientist had somehow managed to defuse the bomb! The fellow from Tenpenny Towers who'd wanted to blow the whole rotten, degenerate pile to kingdom come had certainly had the right idea.

Most of the Brotherhood's woes stemmed from the time when they, or more precisely, Owyn Lyons, had begun to care about the miserable, criminally inclined denizens of the Capital Wasteland. Offering protection to them from the Supermutants had ultimately resulted in these same debased louts being recruited into the Brotherhood's ranks, as it struggled to cope with the demands of an unnecessary and distracting war. The effect that such mutated strains of so-called humanity might have on previously pure blood lines could only be guessed at, but it was hardly surprising that the unity of the Brotherhood had been shattered.

He tried to put a more positive spin on this depressing meditation. Perhaps it wasn't too late to reverse at least some of the damage. If the Outcasts could return as planned … his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a singular looking group descending the steps into the crater. The young woman from the Vault was accompanied by her female companion and the hulking Supermutant. Rothchild found the sight and smell of the creature disgusting, but had to admit that its erudition and eloquence could not be denied. And if there was even a chance it could divert its fellow mutants from their aggressive course, that option must be explored. However the whole enterprise was fraught with perils. As the ill-assorted trio drew nearer, obviously heading in his direction, Rothchild mused on the unlikely characteristics of the woman in the eye of the storm.

She had previously given the impression of being a pert and charming young ingénue, with naively good intentions towards everyone. An impression that was surely intended to mislead. Only someone with formidable political and military acumen could have so artfully managed events in Megaton, while at the same time recruiting an army from such an unpromising source as the Raiders of the Wastes. And even allowing for the distortions of rumour, she appeared to be a combateer of exceptional skill, bravery and endurance. Clearly a very dangerous woman. But the Brotherhood seemed to have no choice other than to ride the tiger and hope it didn't turn on them.

She mounted the wooden steps and gave him a disarming smile, following it with a little yawn and a stretch.

"Good morning, Chief Scribe."

Rothchild twitched involuntarily. Someone of his age shouldn't be affected in this way, but somehow the idea of _pertness_ wouldn't leave his thoughts. That jumpsuit was far too tight.

Trying to throw off his distraction, he said brusquely, "It's commendable that you've arrived so early, although I fear that not all the delegates at the conference will be as punctual. The slavers, for example …"

"On the contrary, I've come to tell you I won't be attending."

Rothchild's jaw dropped. "You won't?"

"No. I leave for the Citadel within the hour."

Floundering, he stammered, "But … this is … disappointing and … irregular. Who will provide a focus for our discussions … a mediator? As the one who initiated this process you must surely …"

"I've brought you a more than capable replacement." Her terse, straight to the point statements were keeping him totally off balance.

"And this person is …?

"Right here next to me." Arta tossed her head in Leo's direction.

Rothchild gaped again, "Him?"

The Supermutant looked down from almost twice the Scribe's height, and spoke mildly. "I am humbled to be chosen, but welcome the opportunity to serve the Wasteland with due diligence."

Her eyes fixed firmly on Rothchild, Arta said sharply, "Can you think of anyone better qualified to be an impartial mediator?"

He swallowed nervously. "I … I suppose not."

"Good. I leave you in Leo's capable hands." She turned on her heel.

Rothchild at last managed to regain something of his usual poise.

"Wait. If your destination is the Citadel, then it behoves me to provide you with a suitable escort. It so happens that Knight Captain Dusk personally requested that her squad be allowed to accompany you."

Arta hesitated. "I've other companions to guard me."

"Perhaps. But surely an offer of Brotherhood protection should not be so lightly turned aside?"

"Very well. If your escort is ready by the time we leave, they're welcome to come with us."

Rothchild watched her walk away, trying unsuccessfully to avert his eyes from the movements of her body within the jumpsuit. _Definitely too tight!_ He drew a long breath. His fears that she might be difficult to control had been more than justified. Possessing as he did an extensive knowledge of pre-war history garnered from the Brotherhood's archives, he could see a parallel with a young woman from Lorraine who more than eight hundred years ago had liberated her country from English invaders, supposedly with divine assistance. But her own supporters had abandoned her when she fell into enemy hands, and she was burned at the stake. In the end, not even her friends could tolerate someone who claimed to have a hotline to God.

He wondered how many would find it a similar relief when the Angel of Death made her final exit.

* * *

As they walked up the slope, Clover asked, "Do you think Dusk really volunteered to come?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Regardless Rothchild will want someone keeping tabs on us."

"Why accept his offer then?"

"Because they'd follow anyway. At least this way we get their help too. And once I tell Elder Lyons what Rothchild's about, his little schemes will be finished."

"Lyons might not believe you."

"At the very least he'll keep a careful eye on Rothchild's activities. That should be enough."

"True, although that means the Brotherhood will remain divided."

"Unfortunately it probably will. But that's preferable to it becoming dominated by those with a narrow, technologically obsessed focus. I think Lyons wants it to be something more. I'll find out for sure when I meet him."

They turned off the main path to the one leading to their house, then stopped abruptly.

Jericho was lounging at a table on the terrace outside the door, looking as relaxed and cocky as Arta could remember, a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of whisky in the other. Beside him was an open knapsack packed tight to the top with bullet clips and grenades. Two rifles, a Chinese Assault and a sniper, were lying on the table. Both looked as though they'd been newly repaired and upgraded. Arta also noticed a folded blue bundle, on which the numerals 101 could be discerned.

Jericho squinted into the bright sunshine, his teeth bared in a broad, fixed grin, appearing to watch them sidelong. He stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and gripped it tightly between his jaws.

No one spoke for a moment. Then Arta folded her arms.

"Come to pay your respects to your new neighbours?"

Jericho made no reply, but his grin managed to stretch even further until it was practically splitting his face.

"I see you've been doing some shopping," Arta observed with a deliberately casual air.

Jericho spoke with the cigarette still clenched. "Yup. Paid a visit to Moira's last night. Always drives a hard bargain, but the product's usually worth it." His tone was equally nonchalant.

"Planning on a trip somewhere?"

He chewed on the stub, then pulled it out. "As it happens, yeah. Ain't been down to Rivet City for an age. Seem to remember some little whore runs the bar, always good for a fast roll in the hay. Well, more like a quick bang in the bilge."

Clover began, "I hope you don't think you're tagging along …" but Arta signalled for her to be silent.

She said, "You know, don't you, that Katrina's not coming with us?"

"I gather she's alive and more than kicking. I don't suppose you're gonna tell me where?"

"No, I won't do that unless she asks me to."

Jericho shrugged. "Then I guess for now it's a sailor's life for me."

Arta gave a stifled laugh. "What makes you think we'd let you back in our party?"

"I ain't asked to be in it."

"Don't you shit with me!"

He looked at her square on. "You know what I bring to the table. And if you're gonna check out the Memorial for your dad, you'll need every ounce of firepower you can muster."

Clover burst out, "How the fuck does he know about Jefferson? I only found out myself last night!"

"Easy Clo'," Arta soothed. "It's obvious who told him. Butch."

"Another little cocksucker I knew we couldn't trust! Arta, I can't believe you'd even contemplate …"

"Hush up one moment." Arta addressed Jericho. "I hope you realise this'd be your final chance. Try any more tricks like the last one, and I'll kill you myself."

Jericho chuckled. "Put me on point. Then you can check out my arse whenever you like."

"I'll do that."

"_Arta!"_ Clover roared.

Arta gripped her shoulders and spoke calmly. "Look at it like this. He's come through for us more times than he's let us down."

"_Bbbut_ …!"

"And next to you and Leo, he's the person I'd most want to be guarding my back. It's like there's your right hand, and then there's your left."

"Which am I supposed to be?"

"C'mon!" Arta drew Clover unwillingly to her, placed a soft kiss on her cheek. "You know which. Let's go get Bryan and Butch, and our gear." To Jericho. "We'll see you at the gate in half an hour or so."

He saluted. "Sure, _capitan_. Meanwhile why don'tcha take a look at that?" He indicated the blue bundle. "Got it with you in mind."

Arta picked up the garment and shook it out. "Moira's amped up Vault suit? Its nowhere near as good protection as combat armour."

"No, but it's a hell of a lot lighter and more flexible, even than Raider gear. Plus I've added a few mods of my own that'll make it stop rounds at least as well as their stuff. And last but not least every two bit mercenary and Raider that's heard of the Lone Wanderer's gonna crap their pants when they see it."

"Maybe I'll wear it as far as the Citadel then. Its light enough to carry as a spare."

"I know what it feels like," Clover growled.

Jericho sniggered. "Aw, don't be like that, we'll be sure and find you something to do! Oh, that reminds me. Moira wants us to carry out some dumb-arse research in exchange for the suit."

"Again? The last time I tried she refused to pay up."

"Well this time we got it in advance. And anyways there's a simple solution. Tell lies."

"What kind of lies?"

"Tell her Deathclaws and Mirelurks are a barrel of laughs."

* * *

The Armoured Vault Suit had been lined with Kevlar, and reinforced with metal at the vulnerable points. It still retained lightness and fitted Arta in a manner that was flatteringly snug.

Butch raised his hands in mock worship. "All hail! The Lone Wanderer goes forth! In a suit of extreme hotness!"

"Let's hope the bullets and bombs will be as impressed," Clover said sourly.

Admiring herself in some polished glass, Arta said, "At least I'll be able to get out of harm's way faster."

"You look very smart indeed, madam!" Wadsworth boomed enthusiastically. "Dressed to kill, in fact!"

"Don't overstrain your humour array!" Clover added, in a low voice.

"Thank you, Wadsworth!" Arta took a last look round her new home, wondering if she would ever see it again. "I trust you'll have added those new fittings by the time we return."

"Naturally madam! May I say I thought the _Love Machine_ theme was most tastefully chosen. And, of course, I'll be sure and tidy up while you're away."

Bryan asked, "We're really leaving at last?"

"Yes, Bryan." Arta took the small boy's hand. "The big adventure starts from now on."

* * *

_In the end our departure's rather later than the crack of dawn. And so we have quite a large farewell committee to see us off._ _With some expected and unexpected members._

Arta stood outside the main gate of Megaton with her companions. Below and to the northwest, the new city of tents spread towards the ruins of Springvale, some even nestling beneath the ridge concealing the entrance to Vault 101. It was another fine morning in the Wastes, the baking heat having not yet begun, the golden glow of early sunlight still investing the landscape with its deceptive tinge.

She gave her weapons: sniper rifle, smg and _shiske _sword, a final check, while watching the crowd that had gathered to witness the Angel of Death depart. Leo was there, of course, with Scribe Rothchild and Sentinel Kodiak. The scribe was giving final instructions and admonitions to Knight Captain Dusk and the two paladins forming her escort. _It looks like a scene from the remote past or legend, with the priest bestowing his blessings on the quest knights. _Leo more closely resembled the monster standing in their way, though Arta had begun to read his expressions well enough to perceive an expression of tender concern at the departure of his niece and, she hoped, herself.

Sheriff Simms was also present to wish them well in his capacity as mayor, but she was surprised to see Sonora Cruz and Jenny Stahl alongside him. Sonora seemed to have a sparkle in her eyes, which made Arta wonder whether Simms had taken her advice. But Jenny hung around him with a possessive air, and the two women noticeably avoided each other's eyes. _What on earth is going on there? _Arta was sure Jenny had no reason to wish her a fond farewell. _I wonder if she ever got Moira's food sanitiser to work properly?_

The eccentric owner of Crater Side Supplies hadn't chosen to turn out in person, but plenty of her products were in evidence. Butch, and even Bryan, was carrying bandoliers of spare magazines, and the former had acquired a broad brimmed hat to go with his shades, Tunnel Snakes jacket and denims. Jericho and Clover had possession of a veritable arsenal of bombs and bullets, though the looks between them were combustible and explosive enough on their own.

_Perhaps that will make what I have to do easier? _But Arta still quailed at the thought of the decision to come. Seeking distraction, she scanned the onlookers for more familiar faces, and picked out Nova. When the mistress of _Gob's Bar and Grill _realised she had caught Arta's attention, she stepped forward.

"We've not always had the best of relationships, but as you're going, I'd like to offer my thanks for what you've done for Megaton. And especially for bringing back the music of Galaxy New Radio. If Gob were still alive, he'd have really appreciated that."

Arta said, with genuine warmth, "And I'd wish for him to be here and able to listen to it."

Nova nodded, then said in her most sultry tones, "Whenever you're in town, you can always drop by."

The arrival of the Brotherhood escort, their briefing over, interrupted the conversation. Dusk was wearing full power armour with a bio-helmet, but was instantly recognisable from her direct manner of speech.

"We're ready to go."

Arta said formally, "I'm honoured by the presence of the Brotherhood. I believe you volunteered for the assignment."

Dusk inclined her helmet. "I owe it to your father. I failed in my duty to remain at his side."

_She sounds genuine in her regrets, but I can't trust her anymore than I can my dreams. _"He would understand and respect your sense of chivalry."

Again the slight bow. "Thank you." Then in business-like tones, "What position would you prefer us to occupy? We're willing to take point if need be."

Arta indicated Jericho. "My … companion … has agreed to be our forward scout. However if you wish to divide the responsibility …" To Jericho, she said, "This is Knight Captain Dusk; she'd like to share point with you."

Jericho pulled his beard. "Lemme see, how 'bout we leave the tincans clunking along in the rear. Maybe even a fucking mile behind where they can't be heard by every Wasteland critter we come across."

Dusk's voice box conveyed her outrage. "Clunking? Is this guy for real?"

Arta said hastily, "Its just his little joke!" Lowering her voice, "You see he's a proud man, and to be anything less than first would wound his vulnerable self-esteem. Perhaps you could humour him, and cover the flanks and rear for now?"

"Since you ask it, yes. But he'd better have some respect for the Brotherhood in future. Clunking!" Still bristling, she issued the appropriate orders to her squad members.

Sighing with relief, Arta confronted Jericho. "Now you've finished winding people up, I'd like to introduce Butch. But, wait a moment, haven't you two already met?"

Jericho guffawed. "Looks like I didn't get up quite early enough! Yeah, our paths have crossed. Long enough for me to figure the little fucker's only good for Guai bait. Put him on a rope and drag him after those bozos!"

_How could I forget so quickly how annoying he can be! _With an air of patience she didn't feel, Arta told Butch. "Don't mind the resident arsehole. Stay in the middle with Bryan. If anything goes down, then make sure he's safe."

Butch gave his one-shouldered shrug. "Why do I get the impression everyone's down on me? Sure I can do that. C'mon kiddo, I'm gonna make you the first Wasteland Snake! After me, that is."

"Jeez, man, the honour … it's like almost too much!"

Arta watched affectionately as the small boy took up a position alongside his would-be gang leader. From above Stockholm gave a parting whistle, and Deputy Weld a less appropriate resume of the delights of Megaton she was leaving behind.

And now … she turned back to Clover. Beset by anxiety, the blonde looked at her most adorably vulnerable.

"I'm gonna be alongside you, aren't I, lover?"

_This is it. Don't feel, think. _"I don't know how to tell you this."

"Tell me what?"

"I love you … but …"

Worriedly Clover said, "That started well. Until the 'but'."

"I want you to stay behind."

"Wh … why?"

"Because you were right. Someone has to keep an eye on Katrina. That kind of power is too much for a single person, even one of unimpeachable integrity, which she isn't."

"But why me?" Clover's voice was thick with emotion. "Why not _him? _He'd actually want to go. I don't. I want to be with you."

"Isn't it obvious? I trust you. I don't trust him. More to the point, Katrina won't either. She likes you, you're on her wavelength."

"He made her trust him before; he can do it again. He's certainly wheedled _you_ round easily enough." Tears welled in Clover's eyes. "I can't believe you're gonna do this."

"I have to put the future of the Wasteland before my own needs."

"No you _don't. _You can still choose like an ordinary human being. Not like some great heroine that everyone's in awe of." Clover gripped Arta's arm. "Don't send me away. I may never see you again."

However much she'd tried to prepare for the moment, Arta was profoundly shaken by Clover's plea and the agony of her dilemma. Seeking inspiration, she cast her gaze towards the horizon beyond the tented encampment. From out of the corner of her eye, something caught her attention.

_No, it was quite impossible._

Next to the blackened remains of a campfire, a folding table and two canvas chairs were set out. On the left sat a hooded figure in dark green robes, on the right a man in a faded white suit and a fedora hat. Between them a chessboard and pieces had been arranged.

Breaking away from Clover, Arta began to run, trying to avoid tripping over the ropes between the tents. As she drew closer, she saw the robed man make his first move: pawn to queen's fourth. The pieces had conventional designs, and were made of highly polished stone, catching the glint of the morning sun and throwing their own shadows across the checkered surface.

When he turned briefly in her direction, she realised he was old man with a venerable white beard, and a hooked nose. His blue eyes were clear, his countenance hale. From a silver chain around his neck hung a wooden medallion carved in the semblance of a tree sprouting leaves. Slowing, Arta moved so that she could see the second player, who had responded with an identical move.

The face that was revealed to her was one rotten and ruined, so stripped of flesh by the decay of innumerable years that the white bones showed through. Within it only the eyes peering from their hollow sockets seemed to live. The hand that gripped and released the pawn was withered and grey.

Breathing hard, Arta stepped backwards. The players gave no further sign that they acknowledged her presence. They played with a calm economy of movement, the only sound the click of the pieces, the harsh wheezing of the ghoul's respiration, a breath of wind snatching at the tent flap.

What had she expected to find? Burke playing chess with Death? Or her father? And if it had been so, what wisdom could they offer her? Both were prepared to make sacrifices to achieve their grandiose schemes. They would surely have scorned her emotions as foolishly sentimental.

But her father had on one occasion abandoned his dreams. He had abandoned them for her. Given up the future of the Wasteland to secure that of his only child.

She turned and walked slowly back. Clover and Jericho were waiting for her, he with his arms folded, she with knuckles pressed to her lips.

Addressing the former Raider, Arta said, "Katrina's in Scrapyard. She may leave soon, but the tracks of a whole army shouldn't be hard to find."

He nodded. "I guessed that was where she was. But if I went there, I'd probably be strung up."

"You can go now with my blessing. And if Katrina doubts it, repeat to her these words: _I am Alpha and Omega."_

"I am Alpha … and Omega." He looked at her strangely. "How come you've changed your mind?"

Arta smiled. "Call it a woman's intuition if you like. If there's one thing a high priestess needs to keep her feet on the ground, it's a father who resolutely refuses to believe. All the same, be careful to whom you speak your heresy."

"I will. Thanks kiddo. I hope I see ya again sometime."

"Good-bye, Jericho."

The look on Clover's face as she silently took her hand was inexpressibly sweet. _If any decision I've taken feels right, this one does. Was I justified in following my heart? What other guidance could I have sought out? The choice was mine to make._

She thought about the figures in her dreams. She saw now that whether they were real or merely metaphorical, the karmic dilemma they represented remained the same. The spirit of the hooded figure might inhabit Burke, Amata, Eulogy Jones … even Mei Wong. The man robed in white could be Three Dog, Sarah Lyons or her own father. Their fates would not change the choices she must make every day of her life. Whether Burke was alive or dead, the dark vision he represented was forever. And there would always be idealists like her father aspiring to create a better world. It was for her, and everyone else, to bring about the reality. Each significant action she took would weigh on the side of the angels … or the demons.

She looked again at the chess players hunched over the board. She would not to submit to becoming like one of the pieces they moved so helplessly. After leaving behind the grim metal walls of Vault 101, she had been reborn as a Wastelander into a new life. Whatever the harsh circumstances of the world, she would defy those who sought to control her destiny, to make her an instrument in another's hands. Now she herself would be the player, and choose the moves that would decide her fate.

Still holding onto Clover, she turned to the waiting party.

"C'mon let's go." Pointing to the bleak Wastes stretching into the distance: "Let's go _out there."_

The game was only just beginning, and who could tell how it would end.

* * *

Epilogue

_And so it came to pass that the Lone Wanderer, known to some as the Angel of Death, stepped through the great door of Vault 101, like a child born again from the womb, into the annals of legend. The Capital Wasteland proved a cruel and inhospitable place, but the Wanderer never looked back with regret; for she knew that whatever long and hard road lay ahead of her, here, at last, she was free._

THE END

* * *

Yes I'm afraid that after over 300 000 words and 2 yrs, it really is the end. I realise this may come as a surprise/disappointment/shock to my most loyal readers. However I decided (with a couple of exceptions) not to warn people in advance, as there seemed no point upsetting them prematurely (not to mention having to deal with constant pleas for the story to be made longer!)

Of course there have been hints. Setting aside the way the plot has gone, I mention in my profile and the start of the story that it's not about fulfilling quests but about Arta surviving perils to become a true Wastelander. So hoping that the story would continue to the end of the game (or even beyond to the DLCs!) was always only a dream; indeed for Arta it _is _a dream. Like convincing Moira not to complete the Wasteland Survival Guide, that dream must now be crushed. It was never on the cards. It was always my intention to end the story after Arta's triumphal return to Megaton, thus signalling she had become that legendary figure known as the Lone Wanderer.

So this is my answer to those who will still beg for the story to go on. _There is no more story as far as I'm concerned. _In fact the original plot has already been expanded, mostly due to reader requests and ideas. These included adding Clover as a companion, an extended role for Burke and a 'supernatural' dimension. Just these elements have vastly multiplied the odyssey through the Wastes to epic size.

Bearing this in mind, consider the possible length of the story if it didn't end here, because the next logical conclusion would be after _Take it Back_. And apart from anything else, I just don't have the desire to continue one single project any longer. There are other things I'd like to write: maybe even some one-shots for a change! It's hard to do that at the same time as taking such an epic story through to completion_. _You have to be very focused.

And I know that some of you are thinking, _but they're on the way to Jefferson's and Rivet City! You can write it that far surely, the characters are there to use!_

No, I really can't. Yes there's a quest line, it's been there all the time, but it's not _my _story, which has ended in the way it's supposed to. You know what's likely to happen: they'll find James isn't there, and clues that will lead them on to Vault 112, Butch and Bryan will wind up in Rivet City, etc, etc, you've played the game, and you _know._ (To anyone who hasn't I'm afraid it's beyond the call of my duty to help you out here!)

And if you want, you can complete the story in your mind's eye; imagine how Arta might have dealt with the 'vampires' in _Blood Ties_, or discovered _The Replicated Man _or rescued _Reilly's Rangers,_ and so on right up to the fateful decision at the Water Purifier. I'm afraid there's nothing more I can say in consolation.

As far as the actual writing is concerned, it's sometimes been hard, but often rewarding. Completing a chapter has nearly always come as a relief. I've sometimes worried about the length, (including that of individual chapters) but I've come to see the story as something like a long-running series.

It remains for me, as is my habit, to give you all my thanks. I hope it's mostly been an enjoyable rather than a frustrating experience. A special mention goes to those who've also reviewed, as you've provided me with absolutely invaluable feedback, inspiration and ideas. I've also been lucky to get some amazingly loyal reviewers who've continued to contribute over the months and years of writing. You know who you are and how much your words have meant to me!

But as most of you reading this ought to have completed the story, despite its great length, my gratitude to you is simply immense. Without you, much of my efforts would have little point, and I would have had no incentive to finish it. Knowing that significant numbers of people were waiting for the completion of each chapter has kept me going all this time. Thank you so much for sticking with it to the end!

And now the final set of author's notes. Make the most of them.

_Tickling stick: _the mole rat stick thingy is almost as dumb.

_A suit of black armour: _Arta was wearing Enclave 'Hellfire' armour when I completed the game, available only as downloadable content (_Broken Steel_). Considerably better than Brotherhood power armour, having the best defensive rating, and is fire resistant to boot.

_The Third Day: _On which Christ rose from the dead. Or if you prefer the phrase once used by the Bishop of Durham, performed a 'conjuring trick with bones'.

_Raider army: _the most significant difference from the normal plot, a wild card that was unfortunately impossible to resolve in the time frame of the story. What will happen to Katrina's Spartans? I'd give them a reasonable chance to achieve most of their objectives, assuming that Arta discovers the secret of where the Supermutants are coming from. But what then? Sharing the Wasteland with a newly victorious Brotherhood (or possibly Enclave) would seem highly unlikely (unless Arta herself survived as in the _Broken Steel_ DLC). By then the Spartans' greater numbers and organisation would make them the equivalent of Caesar's Legion. And when the Brotherhood took on the similar sized force of the New California Republic in the West, they lost. The only difference is the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood would have Liberty Prime (or in the case of the Enclave winning, vertibirds). But one super weapon would be spread awful thin, even if it kept working, and troops on the ground would still be needed. I think Katrina might just win it.

_A young woman from Lorraine: _Jeanne D'Arc or Joan of Arc. Defeated the English at Orleans in 1429, and placed the French Dauphin on the throne. Ultimately she was captured, tried by the Inquisition and burned as a heretic. She wasn't consciously in my mind when I started the story, and there are clear differences between Arta and the historical Joan. Joan was clear and assertive about her divine mission from the beginning. Arta is more like _Milla Jovovich's _portrayal in _Luc Besson's_ film, at first somewhat carried by events and the people around her, until she becomes the heroine they want her to be.

_Armoured Vault Suit: _bear in mind that Arta can't swap clothing at the touch of a hotkey like in the game, so it isn't an entirely daft thing to be wearing. Speed of movement, and therefore manoeuvrability, is high, and the defence rating, (perhaps raised a few points by Jericho's mods) is not altogether pathetic. Having said that, I'd take Ranger Battle Armour over it any day, no matter how long it took to yomp across the Wastes.

_Love machine theme: _the hanging thing with the couple doing it is a bit gross, but at least its colourful, and all the little lights are nice

_Angels … or demons: _the idea that every significant human action is a blow on the side of good or evil is an ancient one known as Manicheanism. Apart from being an interesting alternative to some mainstream religions, which assume the 'good' side will inevitably win, it seems very much in tune with Fallout's Karma system.

_Don't feel, think: _the reverse of Bruce Lee's dictum in _Enter The Dragon: '_Don't think, feel!' I have to say that right up to the last I wasn't sure which way Arta would go. The rational choice was to send Clover not Jericho. But I concluded that, given the option, going with her feelings was what Arta had done throughout the story, and it would be wrong for her to change now. So Lee got it right after all: feeling before thinking made sense in the end.

_Semblance of a tree sprouting leaves: _denoting a druid from Oasis. One of my regrets was I couldn't include that location, but it was too far off the beaten track.

_Out there:_ more than an echo of Kirk's final line in _Star Trek_. But what a line to end (or begin) anything! When I was a little younger, I used to play social RPGs like _Dungeons and Dragons_. The part I always loved most was leaving at the start of the adventure, when the possibilities seemed virtually limitless. With this ending, I tried to recall that feeling.

And last of all, I have to make a plug for my next story. You heard it here first. Rather than begin on all the pending items listed in my profile, I'm going to attempt a hopefully much briefer fic based on cooperative play in _Fable2_. Just because it's the freshest in my mind, and seems like a good idea. Two very different incarnations of a heroine from parallel universes meet each other with exciting, humorous and maybe even erotic results!


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